Hunted. Paul Finch

– in its cool green depths.

      There were several rapids along the Mole, but Deadman’s Reach, which Heck and Gail finally located after leaving the Punto in a National Trust car park and walking several hundred yards along a well-trodden towpath, was located in a broad, shallow valley through which the river meandered at a sedate pace, though Heck felt this was probably deceptive. He’d researched the Mole the previous night, and had learned that its flow rate was highly responsive to rainfall. Though this past June and July had largely been warm and dry, there’d been heavy rain in April and May, which might suggest why Harold Lansing had so easily been swept away.

      The Reach itself was a jutting promontory of aged brickwork, a quayside in the past, though with hunks of rusted metal where mooring ropes had once been tied and tufts of weed growing around its footings there was no sign it was used for that purpose now. Some eighty yards to the north-west, the river plunged over the lip of a weir into a flat rocky basin before curving away through lower lying water meadows.

      Heck halted and glanced around, wafting at midges. Both to east and west, the gentle slopes of the valley were thinly wooded. Immediately beyond the footpath, thick stands of gorse ascended to the skyline. He weaved his way up through these, Gail following, until they reached a stile, beyond which lay level pasture land. This was most likely the spot where the Doversgreen Aviators flew their model planes, though there was nobody here at present.

      Heck shielded his eyes against the sun. Several hundred yards to the west, occasional vehicles flashed by along a main road. A similar distance to the north-east, more sporadic traffic passed over a bridge with iron latticework sides which crossed the river, running west to east. Satisfied, he turned back to the stile and, rather to Gail’s irritation, commenced a slow, cautious descent back to the riverbank. It wasn’t easy for either of them, he in his suit and lace-up leather shoes, she in her skirt.

      At the bottom, Heck leafed through their sheaf of paperwork. ‘This guy who saved Lansing after he fell in … Gary Edwards. Where was he exactly?’

      ‘That headland.’ Gail pointed past the weir to a bend in the river about fifty yards short of the iron bridge.

      ‘But he didn’t actually see Lansing fall into the river?’

      ‘No. Nor the plane as it made contact. Apparently Lansing screamed for help as he was going over the weir. That’s when Edwards noticed he was in trouble. He told me he’d seen the model planes buzzing around overhead, but hadn’t thought much about them. He said they’re here every other weekend, usually too high up to pose any kind of problem for walkers or anglers.’

      Heck read through Gary Edwards’s statement. Edwards was young, only twenty-five, but fit; apparently he played football for a local amateur club. ‘How high is too high?’

      ‘About sixty to seventy feet.’

      ‘And what do we know about Edwards?’

      ‘He’s clean. Well, he’s not in the system.’

      Heck thought about this. ‘That meadow where they fly these planes is … what would you say, fifty, sixty yards in that direction?’ She nodded. He mused again. ‘Only a stone’s throw. Wouldn’t be difficult for the odd one or two planes to stray over this way.’

      ‘Gary Edwards said he’s seen that occasionally, but he’s never seen any of them come down to ground level. I think there are rules governing that.’

      Heck nodded. ‘There are. It’s a code of conduct laid down in the Air Navigation Order. The main elements of it, for our purposes, stipulate that the fly zone must be unobstructed, the model craft must at all times be a safe distance from persons, vessels, vehicles and structures, and – this is the really important bit – must never leave the sight of the operator at any time.’

      ‘I see …’

      ‘I saw that online, just in case you were thinking I’m a bottomless pit of knowledge.’

      She shrugged. ‘The main thing is I’ve already taken statements from the Doversgreen Aviators.’

      ‘Yeah, I’ve read them. They’re not having it, are they?’

      ‘Not a single one will admit responsibility.’

      ‘Surely that doesn’t surprise you?’ Heck walked back along the towpath. ‘Even if it was an honest accident, it could lead to prosecution by the Civil Aviation Authority.’

      ‘Okay, so where are we going now?’

      ‘For a pint.’

      ‘Come again?’

      ‘You know a pub called the Ring O’Bells?’

      ‘Sure. It’s next to the local parish church.’

      ‘Good – that’s where they’re meeting us.’

      ‘Who is?’

      ‘The Doversgreen Aviators.’ Heck checked his watch. ‘In approximately twenty-five minutes.’

      ‘And when did you arrange that?’

      ‘I rang their club chairman last night. Wasn’t difficult, his details are on the website. I said I wanted them at their usual watering hole at two this afternoon. It’s Saturday, so there shouldn’t be a problem.’

      ‘And he agreed, did he?’ She sounded amused. ‘Just like that?’

      ‘Yep.’

      ‘Or so he said.’

      ‘I told him I didn’t need every member there; just the eighteen who were present at the meeting on 21 June.’

      ‘Some chance.’

      ‘Chance won’t come into it.’ Heck diverted from the path up a gravel track to the car park. ‘I told their chairman the alternative was that we visit them all at home, with search warrants and a view to seizing their model aircraft for forensic examination. I made sure he understood that anyone whose craft shows signs of recent damage, or recent immersion in water, or maybe has threads of unexplained fabric connected to it, no matter how microscopic, may have to answer questions under caution.’

      They’d now reached Gail’s Punto. She regarded him over its roof as she unlocked the driver’s door. ‘Bit heavy-handed, don’t you think?’

      ‘What was that phrase you used – means to an end?’

      The vault of the Ring O’Bells was a small side chamber into which only a corner of the bar protruded. Its low, smoke-browned ceiling was supported by heavy oak beams. Its handsome original features served to create the aura of a confined space, as did the double doors to the beer garden when they were closed – as they were now.

      The eighteen members of the Doversgreen Aviators were crammed in like so many sardines, sitting along the benches, standing in corners, clustered around the brass-topped tables. They were exclusively male, but every group was represented, from teenagers to the husky middle-aged. Most looked like countrymen – weather-beaten faces, wild hair, patched woollen jumpers, but there were also shirts and dicky bows on view, even the occasional walking stick.

      Not one of them had ordered a drink. Instead they sat or stood perfectly still, regarding Heck in silence as he leaned against the bar. He’d already checked, and found that none of the nervous faces in front of him had a criminal record. That was perhaps to be expected, as he didn’t actually believe that any of these weekend recreationists would be a regular offender.

      ‘Okay …’ He cleared his throat.

      They listened with rapt attention.

      He glanced at Gail, who was standing in front of the double doors, equally fascinated to know what was coming next.

      ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Heckenburg from the Serial Crimes Unit. You already know Detective Constable Honeyford, as you’ve all given statements to her in the recent past. Statements in which you acquit yourselves and your fellow club members of any wrongdoing. Which