The Wicked Trade (The Forensic Genealogist Book 7), Nathan Goodwin [little red riding hood ebook TXT] 📗

what it might once have been, but now it was the repository for two broken bikes, a rotary washing-line, a stack of bricks and an assortment of children’s outdoor toys.

Judging from the sound of its bark, the dog had torn over to the tennis courts.

Phil remembered the content of the letter, which had referred to the gold guineas. Below the ground in an outhouse. The torchlight fell to the floor. Concrete. He banged his heel into the ground at various points but found it to be completely solid. If there was anything buried below ground here, then it was well and truly encased in cement.

Quickly, he switched on the metal detector which he had purchased with most of the money from the sale of the gold guinea and began to arc it above the floor in long clumsy sweeps. Nothing. Nothing at all.

From what he had seen on Google Maps, there were no other outbuildings here. He switched off the machine and crept back towards the door, aware that the barking had stopped.

He stood still. The dog, he surmised, had returned to the house. He quietly pushed open the door and stuck his head out. The security lights were off and there was no sign of the dog. It was time to leave.

Phil pocketed his phone and began to sprint across the lawn, tripping the security light as soon as he left the safety of the outbuilding.

‘Get him!’ a man’s voice yelled, making Phil’s blood run cold as he glanced over his shoulder to see the dog, an Alsatian, running at full pelt towards him, barking rabidly.

Phil ran hard towards the tennis courts, but knew that he could not outrun the dog, especially once he had reached the dark edges and wouldn’t be able to see where he was going. He ran faster than he was sure that he had ever run in his entire life, unable to pull enough oxygen into his lungs to satisfy the demands of his calf muscles.

He got to the tennis courts, certain from the bark that the dog was almost upon him.

The boundary fence was seconds away. He tossed the metal detector over and prepared himself to jump.

Then, he felt the agonising sear of teeth sinking into the Achilles tendon on his left foot, sending him hurtling to the ground. His head struck something hard, but the pain was nothing compared to the torture emanating from his foot.

Phil tried to drag himself towards the fence but the dog maintained his grip, shaking his head from side to side, just as Phil had seen lions and tigers doing with their prey on the television. He felt something in his heel snap and the pain increased dramatically. He knew that his only chance of survival was getting over that fence. He stretched out, his fingertips grazing the base of a wooden stake. He managed to shuffle himself forwards slightly, then grab on to the stake and pull himself to the fence. He knew that he would get one shot at this. Using all of his remaining energy, Phil kicked out with his right foot, catching the dog on the side of its muzzle. The dog yelped and released his left foot, allowing Phil to pull himself up and dive over the fence.

Just as he was going over, the dog bit down again, this time on his left trainer, holding it in his mouth as Phil fell onto the ground.

He crawled up the bank, his hands and face being cut with every inch of progress made. From down in the garden behind him, Phil was aware of shouting which was rendered inaudible by the dog barking. Then a powerful beam of light arced up from the garden, scanning the woodland around him.

Phil tucked himself behind the thick trunk of an oak tree, wincing at the pain in his foot. He reached down and felt his sock, sodden with blood.

Minutes passed before the torchlight was extinguished and the dog desisted from barking, yet Phil had still not regained his breath. Adrenalin pumped furiously around his body. He had to move on. Without doubt, the police would now be on their way.

Unable to walk on his left foot, Phil took an hour and fifty-five minutes to cross the woodland.

He saw the blue flashing lights long before he reached the hole in the hedgerow.

The police had found his car.

Phil sank down onto the cold ground and closed his eyes. His clothes were shredded and his hands and face bleeding profusely from multiple cuts. He withdrew his mobile and dialled 101. ‘Hi, yes, I’d like to report that my car’s been stolen, please…’

Morton was sitting in his study, alone in the house. Jack, Laura and George had gone to London for a daytrip and Juliette had taken Grace to the playpark. He was trying to shift his thoughts from the meal last night back onto work. He opened his laptop for the first time in two days to the 1842 Tithe map for Braemar Cottage, Aldington. He remembered that he had just been about to print it out when his Aunty Margaret had phoned to say that she would be coming to Sussex. Those two days had felt more like two weeks. Yesterday had gone better than he could ever have hoped or imagined. Soon after the meal had been over, George had gone to bed with a headache, and Jim and Margaret had also left soon afterwards, she taking the three letters with her. Jack had read Grace a bedtime story, then the four of them had adjourned to the lounge with another bottle of wine. Their conversations—on a range of subjects—had been thankfully relaxed and enjoyable. Maybe the alcohol, which he had consumed, now obscured any trace of there having been an awkward silence throughout the evening, but he certainly was not aware of one.

Morton smiled as