Cold Skies: A Psychological Thriller Read online

  “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Mr. Littlewood,” Gareth began. “There’s a lot about this contract that’s kind of… vague.”

  “Hmm. Yes, I’m not sure how much Dr. Bennings said in his letter to your agency, but maybe I can explain. Actually, you’ve come in at a very fortunate moment. Mr. Chapman and I were in the middle of something.”

  Littlewood sniffed loudly, and a smirk crept over his face. Gareth looked to the landlord for help, but he was grinning as well.

  “What I mean is, Mr. Chapman is one more eyewitness to the events taking place in this region. It shows how widespread they really are.”

  At this point, Chapman decided to make his own contribution. “I’ve seen a UFO,” he declared in a cheerful voice.

  “That’s nice,” deadpanned Gareth.

  “I was about to ask a few questions,” Littlewood continued. “Mr. Chapman, do you mind if Gareth sits in on this?”

  “No. The more, the merrier!”

  Brian turned his head and gave Gareth a conspiratorial wink. “Bear with us, and I’ll fill you in as we go along.”

  Littlewood produced a Dictaphone from his pocket. After some fiddling with the controls, he set it running and stood it on end next to the plastic folder.

  “Observation report, February 5th, Brian Littlewood reporting. I’m speaking to Mr. Henry Chapman, the proprietor of Wicken Fen B&B Guest House, Coveney, Cambridgeshire. Mr. Chapman – in your own words, could you tell us what you saw?”

  “My name’s Henry Chapman,” the interviewee began loudly, “and I saw – can that thing hear me all right? Okay. I saw something strange one night last month, at about 9pm.”

  He cleared his throat and continued. “I’d said goodnight to the lads in the White Horse Inn on the corner of Market Street, in Swavesey. We’d been playing darts, and I was on my way home. I was getting a lift in my mate’s car – he was the designated driver, you see – and there were three of us in the car park. Suddenly George, the driver, said “Hey look, what’s that?” So we looked, and – well, I’ve never seen a UFO before. If somebody told me that they’d seen one, I’d laugh at them, to be honest. But that’s the only thing I can think to call it. I’ve never even–”

  “Mr. Chapman,” Brian interrupted, “at this point, can I ask you exactly what did you see?”

  “Er… it looked like a long row of lights. Not plane landing lights; I’d know them straight away. It was a long dark shape with lights inside it, or along the side of it, and it was above the roof of the house opposite.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “We thought we’d drive closer to it, to find out what it was. We got in the car and started out, and it moved – it seemed to always be ahead of us, even though we were driving towards it. Hanging there in the sky, but at the same time, it was moving.”

  Littlewood was hurriedly jotting things down in the folder, and as Gareth peered over the barrier of the interviewer’s arm – trying not to look at what stained the jacket sleeve – he noticed that Littlewood was filling in boxes on a questionnaire.

  “Now, Mr. Chapman,” Littlewood announced. “Try to remember the weather…”

  Craning his neck, Gareth cast his eyes over the questions typed on the paper. They led downwards in neat rows, with space to write observations:

  Time of sighting

  Locations of sighting

  Weather

  Phases of moon

  Surrounding area;

  Airports

  Military airbases

  Tall buildings

  Hills

  Factories

  Main roads

  Police called?

  Official report to MOD made?

  Witnesses?

  Littlewood worked his way through them all, paying particular attention to the other witnesses in the car, as the tape in the Dictaphone wound on. Chapman was clearly enjoying this, and he seemed to have nothing else in the guesthouse to occupy his time at the moment. Gareth idly wondered what the man’s wife was doing.

  “Now to finish, Mr. Chapman, let’s return to the object itself. You said that it was long, and had a row of lights on it. You say it couldn’t have been a plane. Could you have seen an airship?”

  “You mean one of those blimp things? Well, me and my mates talked about that. We thought, maybe it’s Richard Branson in another hot air balloon. Maybe after he’d been in the headlines sailing over the Atlantic, he wanted to sail over the Fenlands. But we’re pretty sure it wasn’t him. It didn’t have ‘Virgin’ written all over it. And if it was one of those advertising things like the Goodyear Blimp, well – why put it up at night?”

  “Why indeed,” said Littlewood, nodding sagely. “Now then, you say it was shaped like an airship? Long and cylindrical, like a cigar?”

  “Yes… I suppose so.”

  “Was it a long, thin cigar, or a short, stubby cigar?”

  Gareth suddenly snorted with laughter, and tried to turn it into a cough.

  Chapman’s eyebrows huddled together as he said reflectively, “Hmm, yes, you’ve reminded me now, I used to like a good cigar. But this thing I saw in the sky, it wasn’t thin, like a Hamlet. Not like one of your standard Coronas. It was thicker… more like a Perfecto, or a Monterrey Diadema… tapering towards the end…”

  “Like a Cuban cigar?” Gareth interrupted, trying to keep a straight face. “A fat, succulent, aromatic cigar, rolled on the thighs of hot Cuban women?”

  Littlewood turned to shoot a scornful glare at Gareth, with even more of a flush in his cheeks. While he fumbled for his place in the list of questions, Chapman nodded slowly, giving Gareth a sly smile.

  “Err… yes,” Littlewood continued. “Did the cigar have wings?”

  Oh for Christ’s sake this guy is taking the piss, thought Gareth.

  After Littlewood and the landlord had gone over the form again, until Gareth was sure even he knew every detail of the observation, the interview drew to a close. Chapman excused himself, and Gareth and Littlewood faced each other across the table.

  “Well, Mr. Manning… I think that’s given you a pretty good idea of what we’re trying to do here.”

  “Yes, I think I’ve got the picture,” Gareth said solemnly. Be polite, he told himself. Half a photographer’s job is managing people.

  “Welcome aboard!” Littlewood grinned and shook Gareth’s hand again. “There’s plenty to see, plenty to do. Are you ready?”

  “Yes, of course. Er… ready for what?”

  “We’ve established a Skywatch base at Craven Fen Farm, down the road. They’ve agreed to let us use one of their barns. If you’re ready, I’ll give you a lift.”

  Taken aback, Gareth nodded assent. Seconds later, as he jogged up the stairs to collect his camera bag, he wondered about what the other man would be driving.

  Ford Capri… VW Golf… Mercedes… cigar with wings… okay, Brian, which one’s yours?

  It turned out to be a Vauxhall Astra, surprisingly clean compared to the state of the owner’s coat. Climbing into its slightly chilly interior, they rolled at a moderate pace down the now familiar Coveney high street, and out of the village, into the Fenlands.

  Gareth had never seen such a mournful landscape in all his life. Even though he lived in Cambridgeshire, he had hardly any reason to venture into the Black Fens. Craven Fen Farm was about five miles west of Coveney, and it was difficult to say where the farms began and ended, as the fields seemed to blur into the distance. The ordinary landscape of trees and hedges was absent, leaving only squares of green and black fading into the mist-covered horizon. In the distance, a row of electricity pylons stood like stick-men scribbled in a child’s sketchbook, legs planted firmly in the rick dark peat, wiry arms stretched out against the backdrop of washed-out grey that passed for the sky.

  “Bit dismal, isn’t it?” Littlewood commented. “It’s the last place I would come to, if I were them.”

  Ga
reth let the ‘them’ reference pass.

  After a few more minutes driving, Littlewood turned off the road onto a muddy track, and the car bumped along beside the sullen black fields until it came to a large, hangar-like barn. A small group of people stood in front of the entrance.

  “There’s the lads,” Littlewood said, grinning.

  Getting out of the messily parked car and walking towards the barn, Gareth saw a huddled group of six oddly mismatched individuals. Five of them had the trendy baggy jackets, sideburns and cropped hair of youth, but the fourth man was clearly older. He was warmly wrapped up in a Barbour jacket with a flat cap crammed onto his head, and possessed a face with more grains and wrinkles than an old wooden log. A large bunch of keys dangled from the man’s right hand.

  “This is Mr. Winslow,” introduced Littlewood, when they arrived at the barn entrance. “He’s the land owner, who’s kindly allowed us to use the barn. The others are all members of SIAP, Cambridgeshire branch. Gentlemen, this is Gareth Manning.”

  The farmer thrust a large dry hand into Gareth’s, and gripped it firmly. “You’re in charge of this lot then, are you?” he said, grinning.

  “No, no, no…” Gareth instantly regretted the speed of his reply. “I’m an agency photographer, from Cambridge. I’m down here to take a few shots of the proceedings.”

  “Hmmph.” The farmer gave a snort of derision that made Gareth feel even more irritated. “Well, I reckon you’ll be all right down here, out of harm’s way, bor. This is a quiet part of the land, so there shouldn’t be too many folk to bother you. Except for all those space aliens, of course.” He gave a short, barking laugh, and Gareth winced in mute desperation.

  “Well!” Winslow jangled the keys in his hand and turned toward the barn doors. “Let’s get on, my booty! Let the dog see the rabbit.”

  Gareth helped the students slide the doors open, letting a heavy mixed smell of hayseed and machine oil out into the brisk air. It was dusty and gloomy inside, but as Gareth walked in, his eyes adjusted to the dim light, and he stared at the bench that had been hauled close to the doorway.

  The bench held the strangest and most expensive-looking selection of equipment Gareth had ever seen. Behind it was a squat electrical generator, the kind used for powering pneumatic drills at construction sites and earthworks.

  “I don’t understand,” Gareth admitted. “Does all of this belong to you?”

  “Not exactly,” said Littlewood smugly. “It’s on loan from Northwestern University.”

  “Northwestern University? In the USA?”

  “Yes. It should have all been in the letter from Dr. Bennings.”

  “Oh, yes. The letter.”

  Covering his confusion, Gareth went back to Littlewood’s car to retrieve his camera bag. Just get on with it, he thought. Take a few snaps of them at work and get it over with.

  Back inside the barn, the students sniggered to each other above their scarves and lapels studded with Roswell and Red Dwarf badges, and Gareth heard Littlewood and Winslow conferring in low tones about something. Lifting up his Minolta camera, Gareth went back outside, stood with his back to the barn, and let the focal length gradually increase. With the F-stop sliding towards infinity, his eye panned out over the land.

  To the left stood the Winslow family’s cottage, looking warm, cozy and self-contained. Beside it was a stable, and behind that, a small enclosed field holding two horses. Gareth kept the zoom trained upon them, waiting for them to do something. He willed them to run, to spend their pent-up energy and take a good, muscle-pumping run over the fields, just as he wished he could run back to Cambridge.

  But there was nowhere for the horses to run to, and apart from the horses, there was nothing for the camera to focus on. The almost monochrome fields ran away from Gareth in all directions, with no trees or buildings to stop them, like water rushing over the edge of a weir. The whole thing was ridiculous; in a place like this, there was nowhere for UFOs to hide. There was nowhere for anything to hide.

  Movement on the lane where they had driven from caught Gareth’s eye, and he pointed the lens in that direction. A Land Rover Discovery, gleaming in the chill February light, rolled slowly along the dirt track towards them. Winslow’s voice startled Gareth; the farmer had left the barn to stand behind him without making any sound at all.

  “The Yanks are coming,” Winslow said, and laughed again.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Monday, February 5th, 1996

  Dr. Doug Bennings was not – as Gareth had imagined – a gawky, bearded, science nerd straight from a BBC 2 Horizon documentary. He was a short, slender, suntanned guy in casual but obviously very expensive clothes. His hair was cut short and shaved at the sides – but not as severe as a Marines buzz-cut. His finely chiseled face beamed at everyone as he stepped out of the Land Rover. “Hey, guys. What’s up?”

  Littlewood had apparently met him before, and began to conduct introductions as if Bennings were some kind of roving ambassador. First Bennings shook hands with Winslow, as befitting the man who had loaned him the use of the land. Winslow even broke off from lighting his pipe to exchange a few pleasantries. Then Bennings turned to Gareth.

  “And you must be Gareth Manning, our resident photography expert. How you doing?”

  “Not bad. Pleased to meet you, too,” Gareth replied. The American’s handshake was strong and dry and didn’t outstay its welcome.

  “Okay, gentlemen, let’s get down to business,” Bennings said crisply. “Brian, is this where the Skywatch HQ is going to be?”

  “Yup. This is where the action is. Or will be.”

  “Let’s take a look.” The small group strode once again through the open barn doors, and once inside, Bennings cast an appreciative eye over the range of equipment.

  “One more thing,” Littlewood said, while Bennings examined one of the viewfinders. “There seems to be no shortage of witnesses in the area. In fact, I took another observation report this morning. The landlord at Gareth’s B & B.”

  “Oh yeah?” Bennings looked up at Gareth and then across to Littlewood. “What kind of sighting?”

  “Night-time visual contact. Cigar-tube, with possible porthole lights.”

  “Is that so? It’s a bit of a contrast to the Amber Gamblers you’ve been telling me about.”

  The aroma of cherry-tinged pipe tobacco told Gareth that Mr. Winslow was standing beside him again. “My boy reckons he saw lights in the sky, once,” the farmer said quietly.

  “Really?”

  “Turned out he’d drunk a whole bottle of elderberry wine after his girlfriend chucked him and he passed out under a hedge. The lights were a couple of local coppers shining their torches on him and trying to wake him up.”

  The middle-aged farmer leaned closer to Gareth, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “I’m not surprised people around here’ve been seeing things. Fensfolk have gotta long history of getting everything arsey-versy.”

  “Sorry, I don’t… er…”

  “Back in the old days, folks round here used to dose themselves up with poppy tea and poppy syrup. Only way they could cope with all the damp and drudgery, bor.”

  “Poppy tea?”

  “Papaver Somniferum,” said Winslow, pronouncing it slowly. “Known to most folk as the flowers that go for making opium. Most gardens had a patch for ’em and there were some fields specially for the London market. The laborers would take a bottle of cold poppy tea out into the fields with ’em for a dockey after the morning job. Put some of ’em out for the afternoon, it would. The ’pothecaries used to sell Godfrey’s Cordial, along with little pills and penny sticks. Mums would give it to their kids to keep ’em quiet when they had to go down the market.”

  “When was this?” asked Gareth concernedly.

  Winslow sniffed. “Oh, about couple o’ hundred years ago.”

  “Er… right…”

  “Hey, guys!” Bennings called, to everyone in general. “Th
ere’s not much we can do, standing around here right now. What do you say we discuss things over lunch?”

  There was a general chorus of agreement, except for Mr. Winslow, on the grounds of his wife’s beef and ale pie already being in the oven.

  As they left the barn, Bennings walked alongside Gareth and said, “Did Brian tell you very much about this NWU assignment? I mean, more than I did in my letter?”

  “I can’t say as he did, no.”

  “Well, let me buy you lunch, and then I’ll put you in the picture. You’ve got today free, haven’t you?”

  “You asked me to keep this whole week free, so I’ve changed around a few appointments.”

  “Awesome.” Bennings turned away, his gaze spanning the arc of emptiness that was Winslow’s farmland, breathing deeply to take in the peaty tang. It was a peculiar smell that Gareth had been trying to define all morning; strong and distinctive, like the sea, but also…

  “So these are the famous Black Fens,” Bennings said to Winslow, who was giving the keys of the barn to Littlewood. “That soil’s an amazing color, isn’t it?”

  “That ain’t black. That’s dark brown.” Winslow looked at neither Bennings, nor the land around him, but instead contemplated the smoldering bowl of his pipe. “You want to see Black Fen, you oughtta go to Feltwell, my old booty. Now that’s really black.”

  As Gareth had got a lift with Littlewood to the barn, he was glad when Bennings offered to take him back to Coveney. Reclining in the Land Rover was almost as comfortable as being in his own VW, only with more space to stretch out in.

  “You like music?” Bennings switched on the CD player as they trundled down the dirt track. “Me, I love British music. That Brit sound’s really killer at the moment.”

  Gareth heard the voice of who he usually referred to as ‘that whingeing twat’ suddenly wail from the speakers, amidst a cloud of chiming guitars. “That’s Morrisey, isn’t it?”