Chapter 62: Full Speed Ahead

Just a few minutes past two on Friday—already an hour into their vigil—Barnaby pulled the day's paper from the pocket of maps nestled at the bottom of the passenger door. Shaking it open with a rustle, he ran his eyes over the headlines on the front page: another round of protests against felling some nearby forest, a local architect's final assessment of the new Scottish Parliament building, and another opinion on their failure to apprehend Midsomer's prolific burglar. "Not for lack of resources," he muttered, scanning the article. Comments from Edwards and victims filled the smudged newsprint: 'We have top men on the case, as we always do.' 'It's been months and Midsomer's police have done nothing to recover our property.' 'We have several leads we are pursuing.' 'How long will we have—'

"How long are we just going to sit here, sir?"

Barnaby looked up at Troy's question, peering through the windscreen. Their car sat back on the final crossroad before Mrs. Huhes' drive, cloaked in the trees and bushes laden with their browning leaves. The rough country path before them was buried beneath a fresh layer of crushed debris tossed across the pavement...and empty. "Until we see some evidence of Mr. Huhes. You remember how barren the road was, past here."

"Right," Troy said, perching his elbow on the driver's door. "Early afternoon."

"That's what she said."

"And I suppose we don't want to be much closer." Troy glanced at his watch again, the third time Barnaby had noticed since his sergeant killed the motor around one.

"That is usually the goal of surveillance, Troy."

"As long as she's not a liar like they usually are out in these villages."

"No reason to assume so after such a short interview," Barnaby said, turning his attention back to the newspaper, the front page crinkling as he turned to the next. At least not usually, he thought, uncovering the latest complaints about Prime Minister Blair. It can be hard to tell, as you've proven until recently, Troy.

"But—there must be something we can do, sir, and not just sit here."

"There is," Barnaby added, turning to Troy. "I will be reading the Causton Echo while you are keeping your eyes and ears on the road for any sign of anyone."

"Dullest day we've had in some time, is it?" Troy asked, turning the car's key back in the ignition before wrenching it out, twisting the center ring around his index finger.

"Patience can be a virtue and you've shown more than enough of it over this investigation, particularly the last week."

"I suppose." The collection of keys on that ring clattered as Troy spun it around before catching it with his palm, tucking it into his pocket.

"Don't ruin it now."

A smattering of announcements from the county council filled in the page beneath comments from the PM instead of about him, followed by the war in Afghanistan, then a dismal opinion piece at the bottom regarding the upcoming US presidential election—with the news rather than any editorials.* Editors never fail, at least at the Echo, he thought, his gaze meandering to the next page after another glance at Troy—looking at his watch yet again—and the narrow road ahead of them—still empty and apparently silent. The third page—reviews of the latest films and a few new books licensed—

"Sir?"

He heard the rumble of an under-powered engine as Troy spoke and he folded the paper into his lap. "Yes?"

Leaning forward, trying to catch a final glimpse of the car they must have both heard, his sergeant was peering through the windscreen off to the right. "Causton mini-cab just drove by, in quite a tear at that," Troy said, settling back and reaching for his keys.

"Hold off a few minutes," Barnaby said, stuffing the half-crumpled Causton Echo back into the door pocket, consulting his own watch. Half two.

"Hmm?" Troy already had the keys back in the ignition.

"Give him some time to settle, if it is him. And if it is, he'll still be there."

"If he doesn't do a runner."

"I doubt that," Barnaby said, already tightening his hand on the door before Troy had a chance to press his foot to the accelerator. "If you're right, he has something to do this weekend."

Five or so minutes later, a dark blue cab rumbled in front of them—its top yellow light shining bright—on the road toward Causton. Grinding through the dry leaves, they flew up along the tires, marking a new path on the road. "I suppose you thought we can just follow his tracks back, sir?" Troy asked, finally turning over the ignition to the gentler sound of a well kept engine.

"A good thought, Troy," Barnaby said as the car jerked forward in a right hand turn onto the thin road, a faint path of shattered leaf litter leading farther down the road, toward the Huhes' house. Well-marked, he thought. "But park on the edge of the road, not in the drive."

The overgrown barren shrubs didn't conceal their car but at least camouflaged it, and the thicket of branches would deaden the crunching tires on the dead leaves. "What do you think, sir?" Troy asked, twisting the keys out of the ignition and releasing the buckle on his seat belt. "Do you really think it is him?"

"Doubting yourself already?" Barnaby replied as he shoved his door open to the stillness of the countryside. If their potential suspect was still out and about, he was light of foot. Well, he'd have to be, to be so successful, he thought, closing the passenger door with a quiet click of the latch. The driver's door snapped rather louder. "Troy, use your mind all the time, not just when you're curious."

The mini-cab's tires had ground their own path into the pebbled drive, the tracks muddled by a reversal out of the drive and back onto the road. Ahead of them, at the end of the dirt path that wound away from the edge of the road, the shambling house still hunkered close to the ground. The grass radiating out from its foundation already lay flatter and browner, and perhaps a few more chunks of the peeling paint had blown away in the breeze over the past day and a half. Troy shook his head, peering up, probably following the top frame to where a keystone might hide beneath the beams. "How do people let things go like this?"

"It's not everyone's top worry."

"But surely you'd have some pride."

"Maybe once," Barnaby said, catching some worn curtains half-hidden behind the dangling shutters. Upkeep must have stopped decades ago. "It might not be an option now." As they finally reached the door and its crumbling threshold, Barnaby paused as Troy took another step. "Well, Troy? This is still your investigation."

"Not so far as the superintendent is concerned, sir," Troy said, searching for his pen and notebook in his inner jacket pocket.

Barnaby nodded, but did not step forward. "Another brick for you—what Edwards doesn't know won't hurt him."

"I'll believe that some day." But Troy still rapped his knuckles sharply against the tired wooden door twice, the brass knob quivering under the force. As he flipped his notebook open to a blank page, the door creaked open, like it squealed against a rust Barnaby didn't remember from two days prior.

The same grizzled woman stood just on the opposite side of the doorway, clutching another cigarette between her thin lips as the swirling smoke veiled her wrinkled face and faded hair. "You two again?" she asked, seizing its filter between her fingers. "Thought you'd have more to do."

Troy tapped the top of his pen, the inky tip appearing with a click. "You said your grandson, Iain Huhes, would be here some time this afternoon. Is he in yet?"

"Yeah." She nodded, her shoulders quivering beneath another frayed dress checked with green and grey; a stained white apron was tied about her waist. "Got in a few minutes ago."

"May we speak with him?" Troy asked, taking a quick note. I hope the time, Barnaby thought.

"If ya must." With another puff on her cigarette and another cloud of smoke from her nostrils, Mrs. Huhes turned around into the dark house. "Iain, coppers!" Silence answered her and after a few seconds, she wandered into the blackened hallway leaving her acrid trail. Barnaby hadn't noticed on Wednesday, but the shadows were solid and empty: no carpet on the scratched wooden floor (he saw the first few feet in the afternoon sunlight), no chairs (but perhaps it was a foyer), no table with the knickknacks he associated with a cottage in any Midsomer village— The old woman's voice rasped again, shrill and harsh and unintelligible.

"Lovely family," Troy said quietly, taking a step back from the door. "Thought I was done, hearing bunk like that."

"Something wrong, Troy?"

"Ah—no, sir." His sergeant scratched at his neck, looking down for a second. "Nothing."

A new round of footsteps rang in the dark, louder and louder as sharp heels cracking against the old wood grew closer. A tall and thin figure approached the doorway, ashen in the gloomy hallway. As he strode a few feet into the sun, its rays cut across his pale face: a pointed nose and fair hair falling across half his forehead. A faded green windbreaker hung from his shoulders, billowing away from his wiry frame, and dark eyes lay hidden behind dark-framed boxy glasses.

"Iain Huhes?" Troy asked, fishing for his badge as Barnaby did the same.

"Could be," the younger man said, slouching against the ancient frame. "Who's askin'?"

"Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby"—they both flipped their badges open as Troy rattled off their names—"Detective Sergeant Troy."

Huhes snorted, crossing his arms over his chest and pulling his jacket tighter across a white t-shirt. "Thought you weren't supposed to come 'round for people like me anymore."

"I beg your pardon?" Barnaby asked, returning his badge safely into his jacket pocket.

"You heard—"

"Your grandmother said you're just in from London," Troy said quickly, already jotting down another few notes. "From university?"

"Yeah. So?"

"When were you last at home?" Barnaby asked, taking a small step back on the dirt path.

"Beginning of the summer hols."

"Would anyone have been driving that car parked along the side of this house?" Best to stick with what we've been saying all along, he thought, although he didn't see the older woman skulking in the hallway.

"Why's that matter?"

"Your grandmother said you were here about a month ago," Troy said, finally looking up from his notebook, "the last time anyone drove it."

"It's not my problem she can't—"

"And we do have your name on the train reservations at that time, Mr. Huhes," Barnaby interrupted. "On a train from London."

"What of it?"

"There was a burglary that weekend, on the other side of the county."

The young man shoved his left hand into his jacket pocket, pulling out a crushed cigarette package. He scowled as he peered in, pulling one out with trembling fingers; crumpling it in his hand, he tossed it aside. No criminal mastermind, that's certain.

Troy's eyes had followed the broken cardboard package as well. "And we found you on several others," his sergeant said, closing his notebook. "Right before or after a whole rash of them, since the spring."

Huhes, having found a lighter in that same pocket, was now puffing heavily on his cigarette. "Can't have been. Too busy with uni."

"What course are you on, if you don't mind answering."

As Huhes pulled the filter from his lips, Barnaby saw the shaking was only worse. "Accounting." A mouthful of smoke followed the word.

"Which university?" Troy asked, tucking away his notebook and pen as he took a first step away from the front door.

"What's it to you? My nan told you I just got back, isn't that enough?"

Barnaby cleared his throat. "It's just the matter of another phone call, Mr. Huhes, to verify it with the school one of my colleagues there uncovered."

Another cloud of smoke wafted into Barnaby's face. "So go ahead."

A few feet away Troy crouched down, sliding a finger into the crumpled pack, not touching its outer cardboard as he lifted it from the dying ground. Rising, he peered at it, turning it around; a couple untouched cigarettes tumbled out. "Sir, weren't there two break-ins, late spring or early summer, with fingerprints left at the scene?"

"Yes," Barnaby said, nodding, "fingerprints not on file with our office." He squinted at a lighter shadow suddenly in the background: Mrs. Huhes, he assumed. "Just like yours are not. So, if any of those on that package match our unidentified specimens...That's quite an interesting possibility, isn't it?" She was closer, the afternoon sunshine bouncing off her greying hair, the green and grey checks on her shoulders melting together. "Should we expect them to match or not?"

At his side again, Troy already had the cigarette package in one of their small evidence bags—safe and sterile—sliding it into his pocket. In front of them, Huhes tapped his foot faster and faster, each draw on his cigarette deeper and longer. "Don't know what you mean," he mumbled around the filter as it burnt lower and lower, almost to his lips.

"So you wouldn't be amiss to accompanying us to the station, have a chat about it all?"

Huhes scraped his cigarette along the door frame, extinguishing the last embers before flicking it aside into the wilted grass. "Don't sound like I have to—"

"No, Mr. Huhes," Troy said, "but if we do have a match, we will come back with a search warrant—for your grandmother's house and your car."

"Haven't you lot bothered her enough?"

"We're just pursuing out investigation—"

The young man barreled between them, catching each of them on a shoulder and nearly knocking the air from Barnaby's chest. "Troy!" For the first few seconds they both gave chase, dirt and gravel crunching beneath his shoes as Huhes' windbreaker fluttered around him and his feet tore new holes into the earth. The gap between him and the two younger men opened quickly, and after a few seconds he slowed, struggling to breathe again as his heart still raced. "That says it all," he muttered, fumbling for his mobile once he finally came to a halt. The guilty man flees...

The stench of smoke gave Mrs. Huhes away before Barnaby heard her footsteps. "What was all that about?" she rasped before coughing. "You said it was 'is car!"

Already shrinking in the distance, Troy had rounded a bend chasing Huhes, vanishing into the Midsomer countryside. "Yes, a reasonable story on Sergeant Troy's part."

"Story?"

"Yes," he said, turning back around and wincing at the stitch in his side. "I can't very well have you warning your grandson of anything, can I?"

"Lying bastards," she said, scowling.

"Sometimes it comes with the territory, Mrs. Huhes."

She disappeared back into her house, muttering several quiet curses and peering back in the direction her grandson had bolted before she did. Barnaby remained outside still struggling to catch his breath as he scrolled through his contacts for Angel's number. ("Sir?" "Could you do me a favor? Could you dig through those burglary reports and set aside the two with fingerprint evidence?" "Of course, sir. Anything else?" "Yes...")

For the first five minutes or so as he spoke with Angel, Barnaby paced, wearing a deepening path in the dying grass. The next five, he turned his wrist over frequently, the minutes ebbing away with the slow tick of the hands on his watch. The next couple, he pondered whether he should try to call Troy—surely he have enough wits about him to turn back after a sensible spell.

"...told you that you don't have to say anything, if you'd like to take that advice."

"Piss off."

Barnaby looked up at the louder and louder voices, creeping around the same corner of the worn house Troy and Huhes had sped past before disappearing into the gentle hills and brush. He didn't expect Troy to sound happy after chasing down a twenty-something, but his words were sharp and clipped.

Huhes appeared first, shuffling forward with his hands already cuffed at his waist. His trousers' knees were caked with mud, and a spray of dust lay on his cheek—and perhaps a newly minted bruise beneath the dirt. Troy followed close behind, his right hand clapped firmly on the other man's shoulder. His hair was rumpled, his tie looser, his jacket wrinkled, and he clutched his left hand into a fist.

"Took you a while," Barnaby said, his eyes narrowing. What on earth happened to you? he wondered. That's unusual.

Troy turned his head, coughing into his left elbow, damp and deep. "Hill I didn't"—he stopped for another breath, pressing heavily on Huhes' shoulder to bring him to a halt as well—"expect, sir." His left hand remained curled into a ball, and as the two men were finally just a few feet away, Barnaby could see those knuckles were white.

"That's all?" he asked, his hand landing on Huhes' other shoulder; their suspect scuffed his shoes in the pebbles of the drive as the pulled him along. Together, they steered him through the dead grass and weeds, past the holes dug by the country rodents, down to the road. He strained beneath their grasp once or twice trying to pull his shoulders away, but the chief inspector just tightened his hold. Glancing back, Barnaby could see the front door had closed, no pale face huddled behind the dusty window. What a family.

Troy's breathing slowed. "Well, it's why it took so long."

Barnaby yanked open the back passenger door, and together they pushed Huhes' shoulders down, bundling him in. "I want to speak to a solicitor," the younger man said, his feet scraping against the car's frame, his head barely clearing its top.

"I already said you can do that at the station," Troy said loudly as he slammed the door. And winced.

"Are you all right, Troy?"

He lifted his left hand, twisting it over. "I think so, sir."

Even still closed, it was more than dirt on either side of his palm: maybe a bit of mud, but also dribbling bright red and crusting black..."Something happen to your left hand?" Troy peeled back his fingers, a shallow pool of blood cupped in his hand: across Troy's palm he could see the cut edge to edge, jagged and dark in its center. "That's a nasty cut," Barnaby muttered, digging through his pocket for his handkerchief. "What the hell happened?"

"The other side of the hill," Troy said quietly before biting down on his lip. "Didn't expect a stone wall at the bottom."

Turning back to their suspect, Barnaby could just see the mark beneath the mess on his face through the glass. "So that would be Mr. Huhes' problem as well?"

"At least I didn't find it with my face."

"Well, here, get something on it." He handed over his handkerchief. "Give me the keys—I'll drive."

Troy wrapped it around his hand: immediately reddening, the white cloth only darkened atop the gash itself. "Thank you, sir." He pulled it tighter—tucking both ends into his palm and closing his hand over top to hold it in place—before finding the car keys, holding them out even as Barnaby heard him hiss quietly.

"Of course."

Once turned around and beginning the journey east back to Causton, Barnaby's foot weighed heavily on the accelerator. "Has it stopped bleeding yet?" he asked, making the last turn before the main road.

He could just see Troy open his hand again, the handkerchief now drenched red, his fingers stained as well. "Not quite."

"Must be a deep one."

"The nail someone hammered on top didn't help much," Troy said quietly before a sharp breath.

Barnaby's gaze flicked up to the rear view mirror as he frowned. Huhes had his head back against the seat, his eyes closed like he was ready to have a nap, not be interviewed about a series of crimes. You're not endearing yourself, Mr. Huhes, Barnaby thought, tapping the indicator as they found the main road and the path widened, freed of the wiry shrubbery closing in on either side. "Are you sure you're all right, Troy?" he asked quietly.

Troy pulled the soaked handkerchief tighter. "I thought so, sir."

"You'd best get that checked out—soon." As his sergeant closed his hand again, Barnaby heard another hiss. You are not all right, he thought.

"Is Bullard ready to see living patients?" Troy asked with another deep breath.

"Of course not." Barnaby shook his head, bearing down more on the accelerator. "I'll drop you at A&E."

* There was an actual article in The Guardian I'm alluding to, I'm not making it up out of nowhere. (Can't actually cite it because it was published three days later than my timeline has this chapter.)

A/N: My torturing of Troy here is not intended to be reminiscent of Nico's experience in "Death Of a Hollow Man" (I remembered when knees deep in the dialogue). They say, "Write about what you know." I've never stuck my hand on a nail, but have definitely stuck my shin on a half inch wide bolt. Ouch.