He was standing just short of the open doors now, so close that he would have been able to hear the tick of an engine as it cooled. He knew this must be a test. They wanted to see how he would react, what sort of person he was. It was a typical game to play. He ought to stop at this point, go back to his car, fetch the torch that lay on the back seat, switch the headlights on to light up the building again. But that would look as though he was scared. It would be a retreat. He knew that at least two pairs of eyes would be watching his every movement from somewhere in the blackness. He couldn’t look weak, or they might just drive away and he would never get a chance to talk to them and hear what they had to say.
Cooper felt in his pocket for the reassurance of his ASP, the extendable baton carried by CID officers. Folded, it was small enough to be unobtrusive, but it extended to eighteen inches of steel with a flick of the wrist.
He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, thinking,
When the two men appeared from the barn, they had balaclavas over their faces and carried weapons in their hands. Cooper was too busy trying to make out their eyes to take in the details of what they were threatening him with. So he missed seeing the first blow coming, and it caught him off guard. The impact in his side sent spurts of agony up his arm and down into his left leg.
‘Stop. Back off. I’m a police officer.’
‘We know that.’
The second blow came too quickly for him to react. It struck from behind, an impact with a heavy object on his back, throwing him forward. He stumbled as he tried to keep his balance.
A third swing from his assailant glanced off his shoulder and struck his temple. Cooper fumbled for his ASP, twisted his body, struck out at the dim shape looming out of the night. He heard a curse of surprise as the ASP hit home.
But then someone else grabbed him from behind. Cooper jabbed an elbow backwards and felt it sink into cushiony flesh. A whoosh of breath past his ear was followed by a relaxation of the grip on his neck. He twisted his hips and grabbed at an arm, forcing it back against the wall. He was vaguely aware of the size and weight of the body he was heaving against — a billowing torso and clumsy limbs, as if he was wrestling a king-size mattress.
He struggled to get a grip on something, but his fingers slid off the surface of a waxed coat. He could smell the wax itself, and deeper smells ingrained into the fabric. He saw the business end of a baseball bat swinging back for another strike.
Then lights came over the hill and swept across the field, briefly illuminating a corner of the barn.
‘Shit,’ muttered one of the men. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
The arms released him, and he dropped to the floor. He heard the confused sounds of running feet, an engine starting up, doors banging, someone shouting.
Groggily, Cooper picked himself up and felt the side of his head. There was no blood, but it was painful, and he could feel a lump developing where the the bat had hit him.
He lifted his eyes at the sound of a vehicle slowing, and peered into the headlights to see a familiar face behind the wheel. The car stopped, a door opened and the driver jumped out.
‘Matt? What are you doing here?’
‘Thank God. Ben, are you all right? What happened?’
‘What do you think? Somebody jumped me.’
‘Why would they do that?’
‘Because I was asking too many questions in the wrong place?’
‘What questions? Who could be so worried about questions?’
‘Actually, I thought you might know, Matt.’
His brother flinched away. ‘What?’
‘In case you hadn’t put two and two together, I was attacked right after you talked to your mates who used to be in the Young Farmers Club.’
‘No.’
‘Oh yes. It’s hardly open to debate.’
‘They wouldn’t do such a thing,’ said Matt.
‘I think so. But I’m just wondering whose side you’re on.’
‘I never wanted for this to happen.’
But Ben could hear the doubt in his voice, and see it in his eyes. He still knew his brother well enough for that. He’d retained some of the ability to read Matt’s thoughts in an expression or a small gesture.
‘If your friends had nothing to do with the Pearsons, what are they so sensitive about? Why do they object to people asking questions?’
Matt looked distressed.
‘I was really hoping I wouldn’t have to be the one who told you this, Ben,’ he said.
‘What?
‘There was something going on at the Light House, something that had nothing to do with drinking beer. Maurice Wharton had lock-ins, you know.’
‘Why? What was going on?’
‘Drugs, they reckon.’
‘I had no idea. You mean someone was dealing at the Light House?’
‘Yep.’
‘Did Wharton know about it?’
‘I couldn’t say. Though it’s hard to imagine him not being aware of what went on at his pub.’
A blue Land Rover drove in to the gateway and stopped.
‘Who’s that?’