With no idea which room to go into, she took the nearest and crawled on hands and knees inside.
She pushed back on her haunches and chose an enormous dresser. She dragged out three drawers, almost too heavy for her to pull, before she found what she was after.
None of them looked like the clothes Mr Crawford would wear and Poppy wondered if they belonged to one of the sons. She didn’t care. She hauled on a short-sleeved T-shirt that hung loose from the shoulders almost to her thighs. She grabbed another one. Long-sleeved, it fell past the tips of her fingers once she’d got it on, but that was probably for the best.
She yanked open another drawer and grabbed out two enormous sweatshirts. They definitely belonged to the sons. Ethel had evidently never disposed of them. Possibly kept them for when the boys came over to help out on the farm.
Poppy jerked the sweatshirt over her head, thankful it wasn’t tight as each move tugged at her injury. Her teeth rattled as she jammed the second sweatshirt under her good arm and made for the stairs.
Panic sliced through her as she headed down them, shouldering through the door at the bottom anxious to grab another quick check out the window.
Still no sign of them coming back, Poppy whipped a carrier bag out of the cardboard box, flung open Ethel’s food cupboard door and reached in. She’d need to eat to give her the strength back that had sapped away in the last hour or so.
Careful to take from the back, she selected ring-pull tins. Baked beans, pineapple chunks, ravioli and a packet of Uncle Ben’s rice. She bent to look at the lower shelves and drew out a packet of Jammie Dodgers and a bar of chocolate and rammed them all into the bag.
Poppy stared at the kettle. No chance of a cup of tea now, but she opened another cupboard and took out three cans of Coke. A poor substitute for her mum’s cure-all, but it would have to do.
Would Ethel notice if cutlery went missing? Poppy slid open a drawer and took out a fork and spoon. She tilted her head to one side, then slipped one of the small, pointed-end steak knives from the drawer and pushed it into the carrier bag with the rest of her loot.
With another furtive peek out of the window, her heart almost exploded from her chest as Mr Crawford’s rusty old car turned into the track and stuttered towards the farmhouse.
Wild panic shot adrenaline racing through her veins. Poppy scooped up her bloodied hoodie, stuffed it into the bag with the rolled-up T-shirt and clenched the bags to her chest as she whipped a frenetic gaze around the kitchen to make sure everything was in place.
With one last glance out the window, she shot out of the front door. She crouched low, to dip down below the level of the stone wall surrounding the front of the farmhouse. With a quick glance behind her, she slipped through the gap into the field and away.
17
Sunday 19 April 1105 hours
Forthefuckoffucksake!
Poppy reared her head up. Heart pounding, she skidded to a halt.
Her phone!
She’d forgotten her fucking phone.
She dumped the bags on the ground and shot back to peer over the stone garden wall which normally came to chest height on her. Pain seared through her side as though it was being ripped apart and she pressed a hand against the dressing, each gasping breath burning her chest. Open-mouthed she sucked in air and pushed aside the darkness that threatened. She had no time for that. She needed to be strong.
The old car was still a way down the track, spluttering and coughing as it approached. She could only hope Ethel and Mr Crawford’s eyesight was as shit as it should be at their age. Knowing her luck, Ethel would have better sight than a shitehawk.
Heart lodged in her throat, Poppy ducked down, pushing aside the pain and exhaustion as sheer panic shot through to lend her strength.
Red-hot pokers stabbed her chest as she crouched, each breath soughing out. She grabbed the handle of the old front door and shoved it open a crack. She dashed through the narrow opening, slammed it behind her as quick as she could and raced into the kitchen, all the time hunkered down below the level of the countertops.
She popped up and snatched her phone off the bench, wrenching out the charging lead. With fingers that shook hard, she barely managed to roll it back into the neat coil she’d found it in.
In a heartbeat, she bobbed her head up and stared at the approaching car. She’d never make it before they saw her.
Head exploding with the force of the pulse pounding through her system, Poppy turned and threw herself along the passageway leading to the back of the house. She’d never been through the house, only ever entering the kitchen.
She darted into a huge old conservatory and skidded to a halt. She grabbed the handle of the glass door and shoved.
As it flew open, she dashed through and slammed it behind her and then circled around to grab the bags she’d left on the ground just as the bump and grind of the car spluttered to a halt at the garden gate.
Without a second thought, Poppy darted for the far side of the garden and lobbed herself over the wall.
She landed full stretch out on the soft carpet of grass. Agony rocketing through her ribs as she belly-crawled for as long as she could before she pushed to her feet and ran.
Ran for safety.
Ran for the black barn.
18
Sunday 19 April 1715 hours
It was a shithole.
He hadn't visited for months and in those few months, they’d managed to destroy it.
He’d left it to his underlings. His downline, the men who worked for him, believing them capable of looking after this side of the business while he sweat himself into a grave trying to dodge legal proceedings which threatened to bring him down.
Disappointment etched itself into his being as he conducted a slow check of the place, one room at a time.
He’d bought the premises seven years previously. An investment for his future. Security. A bolthole. Set up for him to run to under exactly these circumstances. Only it was no longer set up. The neat, precise operation he’d had running like a well-oiled machine had collapsed in on itself, as though the extra pressure he’d applied during its expansion had imploded.
He circled around. Disgust coating the back of his tongue. People he’d believed reliable had let him down. They’d virtually abandoned what once had run sleek and systematic.
It was his fault. He should have kept a closer eye on the finer operations of the organisation. Instead, he’d assumed because the money was rolling in, it was all in hand. He hadn’t expected it to be a palace, but this. This level of neglect churned his stomach with a deadly fury.
His deep, even breathing through clenched teeth was the only sound in the empty room.
Anger gathered pace to tighten his chest. Anger at his right-hand man, but more so at himself. It wasn't as though he'd had to travel far. He should have checked earlier, ensured the place was fit for his purpose. He’d been busy, distracted. Frantic in his effort to pull strings that still remained unpulled. He’d had to move fast. Faster than he’d imagined. He’d had no alternative, been given no choice. He’d relied on others to do work he should have kept a closer eye on.
He studied the dilapidated room in the ex-RAF aerodrome with its high, domed ceiling, narrow windows twenty foot above floor height. A deliberate choice at the time of purchase with the sole purpose of making sure no one could see in.