Pets in Prospect - Malcolm D. Welshman [107]
Hmm. Seems I’d been put in the hot seat. Talking of which, the curry … ‘Excuse me, but I must go,’ I said hurriedly, ‘but I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’
DC Jefferies sounded relieved. So was I by the time I left Willow Wren and found my way to the gravel works in question.
I knew the spot. It was across the main road opposite the turning up to Hawkshill Farm; there were a series of disused gravel pits, some of which were due to be turned into lakes for anglers and trout farming if granted planning permission. But it was another matter finding the place in the dark with the rain bucketing down, the windscreen wipers barely able to cope, and the road awash with water. If it continued at this rate, it would be me, not the car, doing a crawl – swimming for safety.
As it was, I nearly missed the turning down to the pits, but the swirl of yellow water running through a gap in the hedgerow gave a clue to its whereabouts. As I plunged in, I did wonder whether I was being foolhardy. But the DC hadn’t warned me of there being any problem so I ploughed on down the track, skidding through pools of ochre mud, the engine whining, the car lurching one way then the other as the tyres lost their grip and the steering wheel spun in my hands. I couldn’t believe it. Yet again, I was finding myself in the hot seat. And, boy, was it burning. I clenched every orifice as I careered on down.
Gradually, the sheet of rain ahead took on a fluorescent hue condensing into blurred columns of light that became brighter and brighter, sharpening as I drew nearer until they defined themselves as two banks of floodlights casting an arena of white into which I splashed to a halt. I found I had joined a fire engine, two police cars and a Land Rover. Yellow-helmeted figures, their elongated shadows undulating across the boggy ruts and banks of sand like black, crooked fingers, were busy unrolling lengths of canvas. At the perimeter of the corona of lights stood two diminutive, hooded figures, their bodies lost within the folds of identical brown, rubber capes that ballooned from their necks to the ground like a couple of bells. I didn’t need to be told who they were – Madge and Rosie Stockwell.
A man in a dark-blue windcheater and peaked cap battled his way over to me, clutching his hat. He was drenched through, his trousers flat against his legs. I wound the window down a fraction, delaying the moment when I had to get out and get drenched, too.
‘Mr Mitchell?’ he enquired, leaning down to the gap.
I nodded.
‘DC Jefferies … grim night to call you out,’ he continued through clenched teeth, ‘but they insisted.’ He raised a sodden arm and pointed in the direction of the two rubber bells.
Another figure, yellow-helmeted, dressed in bulky, dark-blue jacket and trousers with fluorescent strips down the sides and around cuffs and hems, slipped alongside.
‘This is Frankie Woods, Chief Fire Officer,’ said the DC.
‘And responsible for getting this bloody animal out,’ yelled the officer, the wind whipping the words away. ‘She’s being a right cow.’
I don’t think he realised a pun had just been made and I didn’t think it appropriate to point it out. Under the circumstances, it would have been the pits – with me ending up in one of them.
And that seemed a distinct possibility as the wind buffeted me about, knocking me against the car, as I attempted to don waterproofs and wellies before I was pitched into the full force of the wind and rain and dragged across to the edge of a gravel pit.
Only the restraining hand of Frankie Woods stopped me from sailing over the bank into the thick, yellow morass spread out before me, the surface bubbling from the rain beating down on it, the floodlights picking out the head of the Jersey cow stuck in the middle, the brown of her eyes a stark contrast to the custard-like slurry caking her head. Those eyes were full of fear as she fought to prevent herself sinking from sight into that cauldron of mud. I could feel my heart