21st March
Helen lifted a bale of hay onto the hayrack and cut with a penknife the baler twine that was holding it together. ‘I think Duck has set all this up to get extra labour on the farm,’ she concluded.
‘It’s not easy for him, managing all the sheep on his own,’ I said as I carried another bale to the next rack. ‘He never married, so he’s got to do everything himself.’
‘He pays for extra labour when he needs it though, doesn’t he?’ Helen replied.
‘Well yes,’ I agreed, ‘particularly now that it’s approaching lambing time, but labour costs eat into his profits, so he tries to keep that to a minimum.’
‘Mind you,’ said Helen, ‘this farming is good fun, and we’ve had nothing much else to do while we’ve been waiting for Arkangel to make his move.’
I paused to catch my breath and looked out over the surrounding fields, golden with the approaching sunset.
Bishop’s End Farm was in a very isolated location in the Oxfordshire countryside, well away from the main roads and with the nearest footpath some three hundred metres from the main buildings.
I could understand why MI5 had thought it an ideal place to trap Arkangel or members of his group. Anyone within three hundred metres of the farmyard would only be there if they had business at the farm, and the sophisticated surveillance equipment which had been installed by MI5 could detect any approach within twice that distance.
There would be plenty of time for the two spooks who had been assigned to the operation to assess matters and take appropriate action.
We had, however, been here for two weeks and nothing untoward had yet occurred.
I watched as the tractor made its way up the field towards us and came to a halt nearby.
‘It’s getting late,’ shouted Robert. ‘I thought you might like a lift back to the farm.’
Helen and I tied down the lids of the hayracks and then climbed into the tractor trailer.
As we bumped down the hill on our way back to the farmhouse, I began to ponder with amusement on Helen’s theory that this whole thing had been set up by Duck to obtain free labour. The MI5 agents assigned to the task had, after all, been chosen due to some past association with farming so that they could easily blend in.
Robert Faraday was one of them. He had been brought up on a farm in New Zealand and was highly competent in driving tractors and operating other farm machinery. He also knew a lot about the Romney sheep that Duck reared. These were, apparently, the breed reared in New Zealand. In addition, his background fitted nicely with the cover story for the locals. The story was that Robert and the other agent, Jenny Miller, were Duck’s cousins from New Zealand who were spending a few months in England.
‘Stop here, Robert,’ called Helen as we reached one of the outlying barns. ‘There was a ewe that looked like she might be lambing earlier; I just want to check on her.’
Robert halted the tractor, and Helen climbed out of the trailer.
‘You two go on back,’ she said. ‘I’ll check the ewe and then walk on up to the farm.’
Five minutes later, Robert and I arrived in the farmyard.
Suddenly, the front door of the farmhouse flew open, and Jenny ran into the yard. She was pushing an ammunition clip into a pistol.
‘The microphones have picked up a vehicle stopping, and some calling, back down the track,’ she shouted, scrambling into the Landrover.
Robert and I quickly climbed into the back.
‘You shouldn’t be coming with us,’ said Jenny, glancing at me, ‘but there’s no time to argue.’
‘Helen’s still at the barn,’ I said, as the vehicle sped away.
By the time we reached the barn, there was no sign of another vehicle, no sign of any intruders and no sign of Helen.
We searched the area for twenty minutes, finding nothing but tyre tracks.
I then returned to the barn, calling Helen’s name.
At the door I discovered her mobile lying on the straw, and I had to finally accept that she had vanished.