Never Look Back Read online

  Never Look Back

  Dan Latus

  © Dan Latus 2008

  Dan Latus has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2008 by Robert Hale Ltd.

  This edition published in 2016 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter One

  Today he was uneasy, on edge. He'd woken early, just before first light, and the feeling had hit him instantly. It wasn't the first time either. It had been like this, off and on, since Majorca.

  He completed a tour of the cottage and returned to the spare bedroom, taking binoculars with him. As he focussed the glasses and swept the hillside, he acknowledged that it wasn't much to go on, this gut feeling. Probably nothing at all. But he couldn't ignore it, the sense that something was different, not quite right. Not since that business in Majorca.

  The cottage was located just below the scarp edge on the western side of the moor, giving a distant view of the Cheviot Hills. In front, the ground fell away gently in a long, undulating swathe to the valley. Behind, to the east, a hundred yards of steep hillside swept up to the escarpment. He concentrated on that, the high ground.

  The binoculars didn't reveal anything. He lowered them and stepped back. If an attack ever did come, though, this was where it would come from. The high ground to the east. He stretched and wiggled his neck and shoulders. Then he studied the hillside some more.

  In the nearly three years he'd been here, there had been other occasions when he'd felt vaguely threatened by something he couldn't see. Paranoia? Perhaps.

  Maybe he just ought to accept it, and get used to it? Maybe the feeling went with the territory. His territory.

  But especially since Majorca it was hard to accept that. Something was happening. It wasn't all imagination.

  Standing well back from the window, he scanned the hillside again. His eyes lingered on the copse of birch at the edge of the disused quarry just below the escarpment. Nothing. He could see nothing that shouldn't be there.

  He gnawed his lip. He wasn't satisfied, or reassured. He lowered the binoculars and stood quite still in silent contemplation. The light was stronger now. He could see into the shadows beneath the sandstone outcrop on the skyline. But he couldn't see anything significant, anything different.

  Yet something had drawn him to this window. And now held him here. What was it?

  He was slow getting there but when it came it hit him like a spring squall. The sheep! Where were they?

  He scanned the hillside until he found them, way over to the left and much lower down than usual. Well out of position. Heads up and unsettled.

  He frowned and moved to the side of the window, instinctively presenting less of a target.

  He studied the sheep. Something had disturbed them and upset their rhythm. They were stolid, reliable creatures of habit, the sheep on this moor. And they were hefted, born of generations that had lived and died on this hillside and knew no other. It was their ancestral home. They worked their way around it in a daily cycle, always to be found in the same place at a given time of day. First thing in the morning they were always up high, facing east, waiting for the sun to rise above the horizon.

  But not today, they weren't.

  So the sheep were out of position? Something had disturbed them? What of it?

  It might mean something, or it might mean nothing. Nothing, probably. But there was no way of knowing so long as he remained here. He needed to get outside and take a look.

  *

  The air was cool when he opened the door and slipped out into the yard at the back of the cottage. September. No frost yet, but it wouldn't be long coming. Already the bracken on the hillside was yellowing fast, as the nights cooled and the days shortened. He gave an involuntary shiver and paused to zip up his jacket before setting off.

  He didn't get far. Halfway across the yard, in the shelter of the old stone outhouse, he paused and thought about going back for the shotgun. No. He couldn't be bothered. It wasn't worth it. Now he was outside, he was already feeling less anxious. This was going to be another false alarm. Probably.

  But he did go back. He wanted the Leatherman, his multi-tool knife. Sometimes sheep got themselves caught up in old wire. Things happened. It was as well to have something useful with you. Besides, Apache, the black cat that lived with him had appeared, and was standing at the back door waiting to be let in.

  As he opened the door, he glanced back before he stepped inside. The light was good now. Soon the sun would be up. But even without it, the cloud-free sky promised a bright morning, and a brilliant day to follow. No wind either. Perfect.

  He stooped to smooth Apache's ears and then stepped across to the dresser to reach for his Leatherman.

  *

  Given the conditions, the near perfect conditions, the first bullet shouldn't have missed. But it did.

  It thudded into the wall on the far side of the kitchen, shattering the plaster and filling the air with dust and fragments of stone. Others followed before he could blink. A crater appeared. A heart-beat later the glass in the window facing the hillside disintegrated. Apache screamed and fled.

  By then, Jake was on the floor, scrabbling for the shelter of the wall beneath the shattered window.

  For a moment he lay still, stunned, heart racing. Then instinct and experience took over. Two bullets? He glanced at the wall. Three, probably. Maybe four. Well-grouped. Good shooting. But not good enough.

  He was shaken, badly shaken, but he knew he had to get his brain in gear. And control his breathing. He was panting as if he had just sprinted through a minefield.

  Concentrate! Assess and take action. The old formula.

  He risked a quick glance over the sill of the broken window. There was no-one in sight. It had been long-range shooting. Whoever had done it would be cursing at having missed. The element of surprise was gone now.

  He eyed the door leading out of the kitchen to the rest of the cottage. It was a long way away but he needed to reach it. Whether he went upstairs for the shotgun or not, he had to get through that doorway. And fast. Whoever was doing the shooting could be approaching the window right now, looking to finish the job.

  He took the decision. He crawled to the side of the window and stood up. He braced against the wall for a moment and then hurled himself across the kitchen and through the doorway. Chunks of plaster and fragments of stone showered him but no bullets hit. He was through the gap.

  The shotgun was kept in a locked case inside a locked cupboard in the bedroom he normally used. He reached the cupboard, inserted the key and unlocked it. He grabbed the shotgun and a box of shells. And immediately felt better.

  He slipped out the front door, cut across the patch of rough grass and dived into the cover of waist-high bracken. He took a moment to catch his breath. Then he began working his way rapidly across the hillside, using the hollows and small ravines, heading uphill at speed. Only one thing on his mind now. Get there. Get the bastard!

  One man, he reckoned. A lone sniper.

  Surprising it hadn't been a bomb. Simpler. Anybody could have planted a bomb. But a sniper, a proper one at least, was a rare and valuable weapon.

  Not that it mattered. Time to work out later what was happening, and who it was. If he could. There would be plenty of possibilities to choose from.

  He kept an eye out for movement. No sign of anyone approaching the cottage. Either the sniper was waiting for him to show himself again or he'd quit and gone. One man. He hoped he was still there.

  Just short of the overgrown track he stopped, in cover, and kept still for a few moments. Listening. Watching.

  Uphill from the cottage, the track led to the old quarry. He was pretty sure it was the quarry where the shots had come from. So whoever had gone up there might now be making his way back down the track. Worth waiting for him.

  It wasn't. After a couple of minutes he decided it wasn't going to happen. He pushed on.

  The high bracken gave way to low heather. He paused before he broke cover to scan the escarpment and what he could see of the qu
arry. From here on he would be very exposed if he took the direct route. But was anyone there still? Maybe not.

  He began to get to his feet and almost immediately felt and heard the air vibrate. The bullet missed. He threw himself back down, cursing. Someone was still there. And someone now knew where he was.

  More cautiously, he took the long route round, using the bracken as cover to get as close as he could. He reached the boulders and slabs of rock at the entrance to the quarry and peered gingerly around them. He couldn't see anyone. He skirted all around the edge. Nothing. No sign of anyone. It was the same on top of the escarpment. If someone was still around, they were well dug in.

  He stood still and let his eyes roam, looking for something, anything, that shouldn't be there. Then he heard what sounded like a motor bike engine coughing into life. He wheeled round and stared across the moor to the north. Moments later a quad bike sped into view, bouncing wildly across the rough ground on its balloon tyres. Already it was half a mile away. One man on it.

  He nodded. So that was how it was done. He'd come over the moor. Probably had a bigger vehicle parked somewhere over there. Somewhere near Haddon Wood, maybe, a mile and a half away.

  He grimaced with frustration and spent futile moments staring into the distance. Then he dropped down into the quarry and began hunting around. He knew for certain now that was where the sniper had been located, but he found nothing. No shell cases or bits of paper, or anything else. Still less the impression of a body on the ground. Nothing.

  He stood gazing down at the cottage. Two hundred yards. Two-fifty, at the outside. Pretty good shooting, considering the circumstances. The distance wasn't anything special and the light was reasonable. But the guy hadn't had much to aim at, shooting through glass into an unlit interior. Hardly anything at all, in fact.

  He could have got closer, and made sure, but he'd probably been waiting for him to come outside into the open. That's what he'd have done. Waited.

  Then, when the target had turned back into the cottage, he'd had a go anyway. Maybe he'd got fed up of waiting. Maybe he was cold. Or pushed for time.

  Not a top-class sniper, then. A really good one would wait all day and night long if necessary – in snow or rain, sub-zero temperatures, whatever – and still make the hit when the time came, as it always did if you waited long enough. But this one was just a guy. Just a guy who'd fancied his chances. And he'd messed up. He'd missed.

  Jake shrugged and set off downhill back to the cottage. He'd been lucky. The sniper should have waited longer. Not that it mattered now what he had or hadn't done.

  As for the "who" …. Lots of possibilities, he thought grimly, after all his years in the service. Finding him wouldn't have been easy, but he'd always known one day someone would take the trouble to do it. That day seemed to have arrived.

  Chapter Two

  Mid-morning Jake went into the village, taking the old Land Rover. It was two miles on the rough track from the cottage, and then another mile-and-a-half on pot-holed tarmac. He saw no-one on the way. Just sheep. And rooks out scavenging.

  Most of his stuff was in the Land Rover. What he thought worth keeping. What he wouldn't want to lose.

  Plus Apache, who hadn't wanted to go but couldn't just be left. Jake wasn't confident Apache had it in him to become a genuine wildcat.

  As for himself, he didn't know what he was going to do. Yet. But he'd been found. So one possibility was not returning to the cottage. Ever. He was ready for that.

  Another possibility was going back anyway. Ignoring the morning's events. It all depended. As much as anything, it depended on whether the man – or woman – with the rifle was going to stick around and try again. Jake rather hoped he or she would. It would give him a chance to sort it. That would be better than having to worry and look over his shoulder for ever more.

  *

  The village was called Cragley. It was not very big and it was quiet, especially now. Thursday morning. The weekend to come. But summer holidays over. Schools back in session for a couple of weeks. And not many visitors left in this part of Northumberland.

  He bought a newspaper and sat on a bench on the village green with it. He turned the pages occasionally without reading them. He wanted to think things through, and to see what, if anything, was going on in the village. Not much, it seemed.

  Although no sooner had he thought that than an ambulance and a police car sped past, lights flashing on both of them. They didn't stop anywhere in the village. Heads turned with their passing but people soon got back to what they had been doing before.

  Normal life resumed. Shopping at the little Co-op supermarket. The smell of fresh bread and hot Aberdeen Angus beef pies from the Home Bakery. A succession of beat-up old Land Rovers and pickups at the diesel pump in front of the garage. The landlord from The King's Arms opened his front door, stood at the top of the steps and raised a glass invitingly. Jake grimaced and shook his head.

  Back to normal, then. Reassuringly normal. No mad gunman opening up with a machinegun. No suicide bombs. Nothing. As if the morning's events had all been a bad dream.

  So maybe he would stay. He'd weathered worse situations than this. If they came for him again he would just have to handle it.

  After all, he liked it here. Or he had until now. Until this morning.

  He took a fresh look around. Old stone houses in the thin sunlight. Ancient church. And a chapel. Three pubs. A few shops. Giant horse-chestnut trees and sycamores around the green, rustling in a faint breeze. The scent of fresh-cut grass from the churchyard. Elderly people shuffling along the pavement, entering the tea shop, or coming out of the bank or the hairdresser's. A woman with two toddlers and a baby in a pram labouring up the slope from Town Foot.

  Normal.

  Except somebody had just tried to kill him.

  He studied the passing faces, hoping to find a clue. Most of the people he'd seen before often enough. He nodded to the postman sorting through the envelopes in his hand, and got a greeting back in return. He smiled and turned to look across the green.

  He watched a tall, blonde young woman meandering along the pavement. A visitor. Nice looking. Never been here before, the way she was gazing all around her with such obvious fascination. Interested in everything she could see.

  Surprisingly, she didn't spend long gazing in the window of the famous shoe shop that attracted people from miles around. And she had only a cursory glance at the posh frock shop. Interested more in the window above the chemist's. And, inevitably, in the estate agent's window. Everyone visiting Cragley looked to see if there were any bargains on the housing front, which there weren't, of course. Not any more. Every ruined hovel and collapsing cow shed in the district had long since been snapped up.

  The blonde woman really was having a good look round. On her own, too. No sign of a companion. Surprising for someone with her looks. She wore tight black trousers, a cream t-shirt and a light-weight, bright orange, outdoor jacket. Great breasts, from what he could see. And she had a smile for everyone passing by. Even one for Jake when he caught her eye.

  He smiled back and wondered if she was American. Then he wondered why she was so interested in the buildings above ground-floor level, like the window above the chemist's. She could be flat hunting, he supposed. Or she could be a student of vernacular architecture, interested in the mouldings around the windows or the patterns in the stonework.

  But somehow he didn't think so. Unlikely though it seemed, the more he studied her, the more he began to think she had an interest, a professional interest. And that interested him. Quite a lot, in fact. Especially today.

  *

  It was her first visit. Others had been before, but she hadn't. She thought the village pleasant enough in its rather austere way. Quiet and slow, perhaps. But unblemished by modern development.

  More to the point, there shouldn't be any difficulty here – which was probably why they'd sent her. Good experience. No real problems. What was it Ed had said, with his old-fashioned, affected language? Piece of cake! She smiled at the recollection.

  Then she compiled a mental inventory of risk factors. Wide, open street with clear sight lines. Plenty of cover from parked vehicles. She glanced at the first-floor of the buildings on the far side of the road. The same as this side. Lots of windows, all of them with a good view of the main street and everything in it. She particularly liked the stone balcony and accompanying balustrade above the ancient bank building. Big enough to house an artillery unit! Not that anyone would dare use it, of course. Far too obvious.