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‘Leave him alone! What are you doing?’

Charlie tried to feed his hand through the fence, but Bob Coffin yanked it backwards. ‘Trying to let the little bugger go!’ he grunted.

Jonas took a second to realize what he’d said. He looked at the man’s face, distorted despite the smoothing stocking.

He couldn’t see his eyes, but it felt like the truth.

I promise.

Jonas couldn’t afford to disbelieve him.

‘Charlie! Charlie, calm down!’

Charlie cried and struggled and clung to the wire while Coffin hauled on his arms.

‘Let him go,’ Jonas told the huntsman sharply. ‘Let him go so I can talk to him.’

Coffin did. He stepped back from Charlie, leaving the boy gripping the fence, facing Jonas with his arms spread in an incomplete hug.

Jonas had to work fast. He touched Charlie’s fingers with his. ‘Charlie, listen to me. Listen to me. You’re going home.’

Charlie’s brimming eyes met his. ‘Home?’

Jonas nodded vehemently. ‘Yes, home. Today. Right now. You’re going to go home and see your dad.’

Charlie nodded, bottom lip still wobbling.

‘But you have to go with him, Charlie. Go with him and be a good boy.’

‘Don’t make a fuss,’ said Charlie.

‘That’s right. Be a good boy and don’t make a fuss.’

Charlie looked warily over his shoulder at the huntsman.

Jonas tugged his fingers to bring his attention back to him. ‘You’ll be fine, Charlie. He’s not going to hurt you. I promise.’

Charlie nodded but still looked doubtful. Coffin moved towards them, hand out. Charlie leaned away.

‘I promise, Charlie.’

Charlie knelt still, hitching with sobs, as Coffin pushed the end of the cord through the metal loop on his collar.

‘Good bay,’ said Coffin soothingly.

‘Where are you going to take him?’ Jonas asked.

‘Back,’ said Coffin.

‘To his house?’

‘I’ll leave him where he’ll be found.’

Jonas felt uneasy. ‘Somewhere safe, right?’

Coffin’s voice rose. ‘He’ll be found.’

‘Somewhere close to—’

‘I’m taking him back!’ Coffin spat angrily.

Jonas bit his lip. He had to shut up. If he didn’t, the huntsman might change his crazy mind.

Coffin helped Charlie to his feet.

Jonas rose with him, and his heart rose too. Charlie was going home. He was going to save the boy, after all. Then he was seized with sudden panic.

What about the others?

He’d told Coffin the truth – Charlie probably didn’t know where he was and so was unlikely to be able to lead the police back to the kennels. He did not have the capacity to relay any whispered instructions. Too late, Jonas realized that Charlie was the last captive he should have been working to free. Steven or Jess would have had the police up here within the hour; even little Maisie could have given them enough information to bring this nightmare to a swift close.

He was saving the boy – and leaving the other children to their fates. In a second Charlie would be gone – along with any faint chance of help. He had to send a message with him somehow. A clue. Where they were, or at least that they were still alive.

As Coffin turned to lead Charlie from the run, Jonas pushed his hand through the wire. His hand was big and the diamond pattern was small. He grimaced and twisted and shoved brutally, and watched the skin curl off in a bloody strip between his thumb and his wrist.

He cupped Charlie’s neck and held him there a moment longer at the end of his rope leash.

‘Bye, Charlie.’

‘Bye, Jonas,’ said Charlie. ‘Dog! Spot!’

Jonas pressed his thumb firmly on to the brass nameplate on the boy’s collar. It was all he could think of.

Charlie was led from the yard to a chorus of tearful farewells.

Jonas watched him waving until he disappeared, then gouged another strip of flesh out of his hand as he pulled it back through the wire.

‘Brilliant!’ said Steven. ‘That was fucking brilliant!’

55

AFTER THE DEEPWATER show, Grant Farmer – who actually was a farmer – let the grass in the field grow for haylage.

The summer was hot and dry and by the end of July the field was packed with long well-mixed grass. Farmer usually took it off in the middle of August, but it was starting to look a little brittle and his wife, Jackie, who often knew best, suggested they cut it early and try to get another crop from the field before the weather turned. Jackie had to convince her husband. He didn’t like change or the unexpected, and he was still unsettled by the incident a week ago when someone had tried to steal one of the cows. Number 23 had come in at milking with a dirty rope halter on her head. Jack Biggins at Uphill Farm had lost one a few weeks before. Just disappeared. Grant didn’t like it.

His wife didn’t like it either, but two crops of good haylage from a twelve-acre field would keep their small herd of Friesians in feed all winter, maybe with extra to sell.

Money never comes amiss to a farmer. Or a Farmer.