Page 25 of The Other Side

“No. But I know someone who could.”

“Hmm. No harm’s been done. Let it go. Thanks again. You get off home.”

It was gone midnight when Drum finally reached his cottage. He had to scrape a thick layer of mud and…stuff…off his jacket and boots, then scrub them with warm soapy water before he could even think about going to bed. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to be able to sleep anyway; his mind was racing at a dangerous clip.

He went through his usual security checks, locking and relocking the doors, making sure any accessible window was shut before stepping into the shower. He knew he was on the edge of spiralling, but he hoped the hot water would settle his spiking adrenaline.

Who was Osian? Was he telling the truth? Why the hell didn’t he have a phone? Everyone had a phone. Kids had phones. Kids too little to have phones had phones. But if Osian really knew what had happened to Drum during the first ten years of his life—years that were a total black hole—Drum couldn’t afford to lose contact with him. Even so, a cynical, survivalist part of his brain still screamed this was some sort of trap. Though if Ashford had found out where Drum was, and that was unlikely, it was all too quick. And he didn’t feel that Osian was a threat. Drum felt the opposite.

No, he was as certain as he could be that this didn’t have anything to do with his undercover work. He was safe from Ashford. Maybe not safe from Osian. He swallowed hard. He couldn’t let himself think about that, though it was almost impossible not to. Something was telling him that their encounter was the most significant thing to happen to him in a long time.

Once he was out of the shower and wrapped in a towel, he sat at the table with his laptop. He dutifully wrote up Sheepgate and sent it in with a note that he’d be following up with a visit to the culprits the next day. He also submitted his report on the pub. That at least had been easy.

Drum didn’t like not having the powers of arrest, didn’t like having no official means of defending himself, and he really didn’t like the fact that the previous PCSO had vanished off the face of the earth. And they didn’t fucking tell me!

Googling told him Matthew Green, aged fifty, a smiley ten-year veteran PCSO in the Peak District, had failed to come home to his wife and kids after his shift. He’d been missing for four months, which explained the lack of reported incidents. His car had been found near Calver—which made Drum’s pulse jump—but there had been no trace of him or his equipment. Drum used his read-access credentials to log into the PNC (Police National Computer) and the local force intelligence systems.

He could see the effort that had been put in to finding the PCSO. They’d had dogs and a helicopter out looking for him but he remained a missing person. Drum swallowed hard. It was frightening how easy it had been for the man to slip off the face of the Earth, despite a phone and radio that should have pinged his location. One touch of a button would have summoned help. He didn’t think Matthew had just walked away from his life. A fifty-year-old guy with a family and a decade of local service didn’t just dissolve into the Peak District mist without a trace. Unless someone wanted him to disappear. And why hadn’t Drum been told? Did they think he was too delicate or something? And exactly who knew that Drum had been found near Calver?

Then he googled Osian Fairchild. Nothing. The man didn’t exist anywhere online. He ran the name through every database he could access. No criminal record, no driving license, no intelligence logs. It was a total ghost profile, which was both a relief and disturbing.

He found the addresses for the Varley brothers and Tim Motson and made a note of them. Motson wasn’t on the system, but the Varleys had been picked up for shoplifting in High Burton a year ago and cautioned.

Drum shut his laptop with a sharp click and went up to bed. The silence of the cottage felt heavy and claustrophobic. He went down to check the locks again, counted the number of knives in the drawer, and went back to bed.

He’d still not ordered any of the things from his list but he was too tired now. It had been a more eventful evening than he’d expected, but there was only one person he was thinking about. Drum’s libido had been buried under eighteen months of trauma, tension and no small amount of terror. When you were working undercover, you couldn’t let your defences down, not for a second, maybe occasionally to have a wank but never long enough to have sex.

Even after he’d recovered and was safe in Clover House, the thought of sex still left him cold. He might have thought about going to a gay club, but he’d known in his heart that he wouldn’t. And now a green-eyed violinist with dirty-blond hair, snake hips and an arresting smile had finally sparked some interest, even with the baggage that came with him. Enough interest to make Drum’s dick perk up.

He really wanted to like Osian. If Osian had just seen Drum as a stranger, maybe there could have been something to look forward to, but the guy was…strange. It was worrying to think he might either hold the key to Drum’s forgotten past or be orchestrating his fast-approaching demise.

Right now, the threat of his demise felt a lot more pressing than the prospect of a date.

Drum lay on his back in bed, staring at the ceiling, the phantom scent of wet wool and damp earth still clinging to his senses. His mind kept looping back to the intensity of Osian’s gaze, and the casual, terrifying way he’d hinted at secrets Drum had failed to unearth. As had all the therapists he’d seen in his teens. Too many of them had concluded he was lying, that he did remember but wouldn’t tell them the truth. The others were determined to ‘help’ him by one means or another. At eighteen, he’d had enough and accepted those years were gone.

Although joining the police hadn’t come out of nowhere. How could he help but wonder about his parents? Who they were, where they were, if he’d ever find them? Maybe if he spent his life helping other people, he’d come across something that helped him.

Drum closed his eyes, forcing his breathing into a steady, measured rhythm. He needed to be smart, to be careful. After lunch tomorrow, he’d go back out on his beat. He’d call on the Varleys and the Motsons, hopefully the parents would be in. Drum would play the role of the harmless, compliant PCSO, the glorified traffic warden in a hi-vis jacket. He’d smile at the locals, appease the farmers, and keep his eyes wide open. Because if someone was erasing police support officers in this valley, Drum might be walking around with a massive target painted on his back, along with the threat from Ashford. And he needed to talk to Osian Fairchild again, and this time when he was off the clock, so he could make sure he got some answers.

He finally drifted off into a fitful sleep, dreaming of endless winding lanes, green eyes watching from the shadows, and the distinct, mocking sound of a sheep bleating.

Drum woke feeling as if he’d hardly slept. A shower didn’t help but a bacon sandwich did. While he ate, he ordered a few things, though not a bike, lock or helmet. Not yet. He was just chewing the last mouthful when the knock came at the door. Drum’s heart did a sudden, violent echoing thud. Peeking through the front window, he saw Osian.

When Drum opened the door, he realised Osian wasn’t alone; he was holding the reins of two massive horses.

“Morning,” Osian said, an easy smile tugging at his lips.

“Morning.”

“You mentioned you weren’t working until this afternoon.” Osian gestured at the animals. “I’ve borrowed them. Thought you might like to go for a ride. I’ve even packed a picnic.”

Drum gaped at him. “Ride? I don’t know how to ride.”

“You could, once upon a time,” Osian replied softly, his eyes searching Drum’s face. “You were better at it than me. Well, more daring than me. It might be one of those things your body remembers once you’re in the saddle.”

Like riding a bike? The trouble was, the horses looked big. And it was a long way to fall. Drum looked down at his dark cotton trousers and blue T-shirt. “What should I wear?”

“You’re fine as you are. If you don’t have boots, or something with a small heel, trainers will do. I’ve brought you a helmet. Fi wouldn’t let me bring the horses unless I promised we’d both wear them. Fi and Will who own the horses are friends of mine. Will played the bodhrán last night.”