Nobody's Agent

Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

It was ten o’clock in the evening, and Sam Trent had just called it a day at the local paper, where he worked as a reporter. The town of Finchley was not full of the sensational news of the big cities. In fact, the only crime they seemed to have lately was a spate of burglaries, but that was put down to homeless people who wandered through town.

A couple of years before, a body was found in the old Mason factory. The unidentified man had been murdered by some homeless guy and Mayor Karl Thomas, who had been the sheriff at the time, caught the killer. The case was quick, mainly because the guy had admitted to it. So, now the man was serving life in prison, and Thomas had been the local hero.

Finchley was one of those towns in the middle of everywhere but close to nowhere. It was a go-through town, perfect for the local diner and gas station. Some big-shot asshole from New York wanted to build a supermarket close to the gas station. He even visited the town— not that anyone noticed. Something had changed his mind, despite the townsfolks’ apparent interest. It would have meant jobs for many people, and it would have been incredibly lucrative for the gas station and the diner.

However, the deal had fallen through. Some had blamed the new highway that was to be built a couple of miles away. A route that was now going to be a problem for the town as it would mean fewer people passing through Finchley.

Trent had been around long enough to have seen the same thing happen to many towns. And now, it was happening to his town. The construction of the new route wouldn’t be going ahead for another year, but of course, that didn’t stop the townspeople from worrying.

Trent, however, had a new story. While reporting on a story involving dead fish at the local fishery, he discovered something. Elliott Bowmont had reported a spate of dead carp in his ponds, despite having never had a problem in thirty years. Sam Trent walked toward his blue Ford F-150 pickup, tired and in desperate need of a drink and something to eat. Dan’s Diner was just down the street from his house, so having a quick bite there seemed a perfect choice. Besides, he couldn’t be bothered to cook, and he’d had enough of TV dinners. The thought of one of Dan’s burgers and fries made Trent’s stomach groan in agreement with his decision.

Trent was a tall, slim man, with short jet-black hair, a trimmed beard, and a pair of round spectacles with thin black frames that covered his wide, ever-exploring brown eyes. He had dressed appropriately for the daytime, blue jeans with a white shirt, gray V-neck sweater, and brown walking boots. After all, the weather forecaster had said it would be a nice warm day. And it had been, with sixty-four degrees and clear skies.

But now, with no cloud cover above, the temperature had plummeted to, at best, forty-six degrees. A crisp breeze blew in from the east. Trent shuddered and wrapped his arms tightly around his chest, making him regret his decision to leave his heavy brown leather coat in his car.

He pulled his keys from his trouser pocket and pressed the electric fob. There was a gentle thud as the car lock disengaged, and the signal lights blinked orange twice. Trent opened the driver’s door, heaved his shivering body inside, and set the vehicle’s heater to the red zone before starting the engine. He waited for a moment, let the engine warm-up, and the stale heat began to circulate. A song from the nineties blared on the radio, taking Trent back to his youth. He smiled, put the shift into drive, and eased gently onto the gas.

Trent lived on Highway Road, a lonely stretch of asphalt overlooking a cornfield. His was the last house of five in the row, with Dan’s Diner at the end and then nothing but road and fields until you hit the turn for the highway.

Trent sang along to the music and stared into the blackness of the road. The streetlamps had ended as he turned off Main Street and left at the church on Highway Road. Trent always found it odd that nobody put streetlamps along that stretch of road, but he knew the term, “budget cuts,” would be the answer.

The journey to Dan’s Diner would take Trent by his house. Still, he didn’t mind driving back on his own later. He was feeling too lazy to walk the short distance, besides, the portions at Dan’s were huge, so he wouldn’t have the strength to walk. Trent looked over the rucksack in the footwell of the passenger side and smiled. He had just started writing the true-crime novel, but it got more interesting than he had envisaged so far.

The song finished and was replaced by the local half-past-ten news. California was electing a new Governor, France and Britain were in talks over the tunnel and ferry ports. All-in-all, nothing affected him personally, so he gave up listening and changed the station.

His thoughts were a million miles away, thinking about the burger and fries and the appointment he had in the morning. Trent’s work at the newspaper paid the bills, but there wasn’t much going on worthy of front-page news. The thought of leaving the town and working for a city newspaper had been squashed years back after his mother had become ill, and he was forced to look after her the best he could. Even though she’d been dead for six months, he had lost the motivation to leave.

The book, however, was a turning point for him. It was a chance to do something other than reporting about how farmer Jack Lloyd had grown a prize marrow.

Trent pulled into one of the parking spaces in front of Dan’s Diner and sat for a moment. The welcoming glow from the interior lights and the red of the neon sign illuminated his face. It was a fantastic sight for him, one he would miss when those book sales started to come in and he could get the hell out of town.