36
The little village store carried ample stocks to keep Slim roadworthy. With a 250ml bottle of Teachers tucked into the inner pocket of his jacket, he headed with renewed purpose to Worth Farm, the bolt cutters wrapped in a towel in his bag. With a little lubrication he had rediscovered his edge, the spark that would set the bonfire alight. He needed to get under the skin of the mystery, break the seal that was keeping him out.
The sun had dipped beneath the horizon, and the tors of Bodmin Moor were stretching long fingers across the land when he reached the top of the farm lane.
Taking the footpath through the adjacent field, he waited until he had reached the lower corner of the farmyard’s grounds then climbed up into the hedge, wincing as thorns pierced his jacket, scraping the ski
