What Evil Hides

Chapter One

Alexandru Popa drove his knuckles into his back and contemplated the fine mist rising over the hop bines.

It was a little after seven o’clock in the morning, and he took a moment to enjoy one of the most beautiful sunrises he had seen since returning to Kent that July. The Weald’s undulating landscape was awash with different shades of green after a summer of showers and sunshine, and the hops were flourishing.

Hand-woven trellises lined the hillside hop garden in neat rows that went on for several hundred metres, broken in places by natural corridors between the trellises to allow for the tractor and trailer that would collect the harvest once Alexandru and the other pickers had snipped the bines loose. The bines wound their way up wires that had been woven that February and March, ready for the first tentative shoots to grasp come April, and then the summer months had been spent coaxing those into the eight-metre-high vines that towered over him.

They provided a modicum of shade over the parched clay and sandstone-based soil that had been baked and cracked by the late summer’s heatwave, and he took a moment to pause and take a deep breath.

There was an aroma here that defied explanation, and made Alexandru’s heart soar. It depended on the hop variety he passed but could vary between an earthy, wholesome smell to citrus within a few lengths of trellis. He ran his calloused hand over the nearest ripened hop cones with a practised light touch that came from years of travelling here from Romania each season to lend his expertise and labour to the full-time staff contingent.

The farm belonged to a well-established business that provided hops to several independent craft breweries in the county, as well as one or two over the border in Sussex. By the time the September harvest was complete, Alexandru and his co-workers would work ten- to twelve-hour days picking several thousand bines, each one destined to become a part of the flourishing local craft beer industry.

He had even heard rumours about breweries from further afield placing orders for next year, depending on how well two new varieties were received at next month’s green hop festival.

‘Here.’

He turned at the sound of a voice to see Daniel Ionescu walking towards him, a thermal flask in his hand, and raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that coffee?’

‘Justin turned up with the tractor five minutes ago and brought fresh supplies.’

‘I knew I liked him for a reason.’

Daniel smiled and handed over one of two tin mugs, then shrugged his daypack to the ground before uncapping the flask and pouring a generous serving. ‘How’s your back?’

Alexandru waggled his free hand by way of response.

‘It’s your age,’ said Daniel.

‘Piss off.’ He blew across the surface of the hot liquid and closed his eyes, savouring the arabica beans before taking a tentative sip. ‘Are we still picking these today?’

The younger man raised his gaze to the top of the bines, eyeing the criss-crossing wires at the top of each. ‘He says they’re ready.’

‘I think he’s right.’

‘You agree with him?’

‘He’s not as patient as his father was, but yes – he knows what he’s doing,’ said Alexandru, pausing to take another sip. He pointed at the bines across the other side of the baked earth track. ‘And he’s not afraid to try new varieties. Those have done really well this year.’

Daniel wrinkled his nose. ‘Has he found a buyer?’

‘A new craft brewery in Maidstone wants half of them.’ Alexandru finished the coffee and tipped the dregs onto the track, away from the bines so as not to affect the delicate balance of precious nutrients in the soil. ‘They’ve already placed an order for next year too.’

The other man’s eyes widened. ‘Can they do that?’

‘They didn’t want to wait until the hop festival in case they lost out, but based on that I don’t think he’ll have a problem selling the rest once the word gets out.’

‘Good.’ Daniel took the mug from him and dropped both into his daypack together with the flask. ‘That means we’ll have work next year then.’

‘Looks like it.’ Alexandru paused at the sound of the tractor a few hundred metres to his right through the bines, and jerked his thumb at the trellises beside them. ‘Best get back to work.’

The two men walked to the end of the row where a pair of red tractors rumbled, one with a corn picker platform attached to its rear, the other towing a trailer.

‘Ready?’ called the man with the corn picker. ‘Thought we’d make a start on this row before the sun gets too high – the remaining bines will give us some shade while we work.’

‘Ready, Howard.’ Alexandru tested the weight of the vicious-looking scythe in his calloused hand and eyed first the nearest hops, then Daniel. ‘Do you want to go up again?’

‘You go. We’ll switch in an hour or so.’

Pulling a floppy cotton bucket hat from the back pocket of his jeans and adjusting it on his head, Alexandru lifted the safety rail and clambered into the steel picker, planted his feet on the grilled floor and waited while Howard controlled the ascent. In one fluid motion he was up in the air and able to reach out and cut the top of the bine with a single slash of the scythe.

Below, Daniel did the same, leaving a few centimetres of the bine protruding from the ground, and carried the remains over to the trailer being pulled by the second tractor before returning.

The two men repeated the exercise along the row of hops before Howard lowered the corn picker and Alexandru climbed out while the tractor was positioned to return along the next row.

The trailer was only a quarter full, and the second tractor’s engine idled while the driver waited for them to start the harvesting process once more.

As the corn picker lifted him into the air, Alexandru took a moment to admire the scenery. He would never tire of it, he was sure. From here, he could see along the bines and over towards the main dirt track that led from the field to the farmyard. An old stone wall ran the width of the hop garden, disappearing into a woodland copse of beech, oak and ash that was being regenerated with some of the profit from the farm. The gate from the field to the yard was left open for ease of access for the two tractors and the workers, and parked beyond that was a dark green four-wheel drive and a blue pick-up truck used by the owner and his wife.

The farmhouse was late Victorian, a striking building that reflected the early morning sunshine across its red brick walls and clay-tiled roof. There was movement at a door to the side of the building, and then Justin Mallory, the owner, strode across the yard towards a converted stable block on the opposite side of the yard that was used for the farm office and a rudimentary staffroom. He had his hand raised to his head, and Alexandru realised the man was on his mobile phone, the working day already underway for the busy enterprise.

In another hour or so, the first tourist group would be deposited at the main gate by minibus, eager to walk amongst the bines – and participate in an entertaining beer tasting afterwards, even if it was before lunchtime.

‘Today, Alex.’

He jumped, then looked down to where Daniel was waiting at the bottom of the bine, his scythe lowered. ‘Sorry.’

Turning his attention back to his work, they moved methodically along the row, the swish of the scythe and the rustle of fresh hops settling in the trailer below filtering up to where he stood and setting a rhythm to the work that held an underlying urgency.

If the hops were left too long to ripen, the delicate balancing act that ensured the flavours were what the waiting brewers expected would be ruined and with it, the hop garden’s reputation.

Alexandru grimaced as a familiar twinge struck the base of his spine when he let go of the next bine, and straightened for a moment, letting his gaze roam across the remaining rows that stretched out for another hundred metres or more.

And then he frowned.

There was something stuck between the bines in a row twenty metres or so away, something pale blue that flapped in the gentle breeze. Something that––

‘Lower me down!’ he bellowed. ‘Quickly!’

Howard didn’t hesitate. The corn picker boom dropped while Alexandru clutched the safety railing, his jaw set.

As soon as the boom was safe, he lifted the rail, unhitched his safety line and ran to the end of the row, Daniel and Howard at his heels.

‘What’s going on?’ Daniel called. ‘What is it?’

He didn’t answer, already out of breath and ruing the amount of real ale he had enjoyed in the evenings with his compatriots in the local pub. There used to be a time in his youth when he could run a half marathon, but those days were long gone. Sweat beaded at his forehead and he was panting by the time he reached the track and slowed to a walk, peering between the rows of bines while he tried to locate what he had seen.

Howard caught up with him first, his English accent tinged with a Somerset burr that spoke of his experience in the cider fields of the West Country. ‘What did you see?’

‘I’m not sure. I think…’ Alexandru broke off when he reached the next row, and he felt his bowels twist. ‘Stay here.’

‘Alex?’ Daniel tried to squeeze past him, but he pushed him back.

‘I said, stay here.’ He could hear the fear in his own voice now, and the other man’s eyes widened, seeing something in his expression that brooked no argument. ‘Let me check first. I may be mistaken.’

He turned away before Daniel and Howard could protest further, and walked along the row. There was a natural curve to it caused by the topography of the hop garden. On a gentle slope that caught the sun’s rays throughout the day and that drained well after heavy rains, the centre of the row of bines was hidden from view at the moment, revealing its secret as he edged closer.

Alexandru’s footsteps were slower now and more hesitant as he looked up and ran his gaze over the crisscrossing trellis lines, trying to gauge how close he was to… it.

Then there was a flutter of wind amongst the bines, and the leaves parted to reveal a scrap of the same pale blue he had seen from the corn picker’s platform.

Except it wasn’t a scrap.

It was a man’s shirt, he could see that now. It had been torn lengthways, collar to hem, and there was what looked like…

Blood.

It had soaked through the hem of the shirt, down the dark grey cargo trousers and over dirty and well-worn work boots before pooling on the floor amongst…

Alexandru reached for the silver crucifix at the nape of his neck, bile rising in this throat as he gazed up at the bloodied man who was bound by his wrists and ankles to the trellis wires, his face a rictus of agony.

There was so much blood, so much horror in the man’s eyes, and his––

‘My God,’ Alexandru managed, and then turned on his heel and stumbled back towards Daniel and Howard.