Iain Cameron [Cameron - Black Quarry Farm

On the far side of the vineyard, blackbirds were helping themselves to a feast of immature Pinot Noir grapes. They rose in panic as a car drove along the driveway, its tyres rumbling over the loose pebbles. The blue Vauxhall Insignia stopped close to the farmhouse door and the two occupants got out.

They both stretched and yawned, as if theyd undertaken a long, tiring journey. In fact, they had only travelled the twenty or so miles from Crawley, and had taken a break halfway at a rose-covered country pub for a long lunch, accompanied by a pint of real ale for him and two small glasses of wine for his wife.

John Beech stood in the afternoon sunlight, admiring the view. He was a slim man, although the slight bulge around his midriff hinted at too many client lunches and trips to a pub near the office, winding down after another hard day at the coal face. With a sigh, he popped open the boot of the car and unloaded the suitcases. He was closing the lid when the front door of the farmhouse opened and a tall woman strode out towards them.

Hello there! she said in a loud voice that John thought would not be out of place at a hunt or county show. You must be Mr and Mrs Beech. Im so pleased to meet you. Welcome to Black Quarry Farm. She reached out and shook both their hands.

Im Melissa Holland, but call me Mel, everyone else does. Im the housekeeper and general dogsbody around here. If you bring your bags, Ill show you the house.

Aged around forty, Mel had long fair hair tied back in a ponytail. She had a prominent nose and ruddy complexion suggesting a woman who liked the great outdoors, mucking out stables or undertaking exhilarating country walks with a lively dog.

They were instructed to leave their bags in the hall as Mel began a guided tour of the house. The kitchen was at least twice the size of the one in the Beeches four-bed detached in Milton Mount, and stacked floor-to-ceiling with modern Neff appliances. A large, central, mahogany-topped breakfast bar dominated the room. Several large windows, all open, offered uninterrupted views over long rows of vines, and filled the air with the strong scent of roses and honeysuckle.

Johns wife, Lara, said she thought the kitchen was marvellous, making him think it was only a matter of time before he would face a demand to replace theirs, despite it being only six months since they last decorated. The house was owned by the well-known industrialist, Simon Radcliffe. John was disappointed to learn he was staying at his villa in Spain. He was a popular guest on late-night chat-shows and financial segments on BBC News, and after reading his book, John wanted to meet him.

This wasnt the only reason for coming to Black Quarry Farm, as he and Lara both liked wine and, over the years, had visited numerous vineyards in Bordeaux and Burgundy. What better place to find that lost spark in their marriage than in a field full of grapes, with a village nearby boasting several pubs serving good food and a wide selection of beers?

**

John and Lara arrived back at the farm around eleven-fifteen, following a short walk from the New Moon pub in the nearby village of Nutley, where they had enjoyed an excellent evening. Theyd eaten a tasty meal in the restaurant and, after moving into the bar, been entertained by a local folk group.

Lara headed into the house to make them both a nightcap while John stayed outside to have a smoke. On the way back from the pub he couldnt help but notice how much clearer the night sky was here than in Crawley. He often stood out in the back garden there, winter and summer, clutching a whisky and staring at the heavens, but he couldnt see much as it was obscured by light pollution from Gatwick Airport, the M23 motorway, and the bright streetlights on their road.

Ten minutes later, he was starting to feel chilly so decided to head indoors. He stopped for a moment to take one last look around. Despite the darkness, he could still make out the shape of the large barn where the grapes were pressed and the wine bottled. Beside it, two tall fermentation tanks, the condensation glistening in the cold, white moonlight. Behind them lay the smart barn conversion where the owner stayed when in the country, offering fine views over rows and rows of vines standing sentinel, resembling ghosts of the Roman legions that once marched over this land. With a shiver at both the night chill and thoughts of ghosts from a bygone age still haunting this place, he turned towards the door, headed inside, and closed it behind him.

John downed the nightcap Lara had left for him on the coffee table before heading upstairs. He found her in bed, reading one of Ian Rankins Inspector Rebus crime novels. He didnt object to her taking a book to bed, far from it, as it could spark an interesting discussion, but he was convinced all the blood and gore between the pages did nothing to put her in the mood for a serious workout between the sheets. Now, with several pints of Harveys Best inside him, it was just what he fancied doing. Ah well, there was always tomorrow.

He soon fell into a deep sleep. He was jerked awake after what felt like only a few minutes by a repeated elbow in the ribs. When he opened his eyes, he was surprised to see he wasnt in his bed at the house in Crawley. He squinted at the clock: two-thirty.

John, are you awake? Lara asked.

This is a recording, John Beech is unavailable at the moment, please leave a message after the tone.

Stop messing about, you idiot. A strange noise woke me.

What sort of noise? A fox, an owl?

No, it was a sharp, creaking sound. Like a window or a door being opened.

He paused for a few seconds to listen. I cant hear anything. It might be the branches of the trees moving around in the wind. There are quite a lot of them around here. We are out in the country, after all.

I know we are. I think Ill get up and check.

Youll do no such thing. This is an old house. Its bound to make some odd noises, at least ones were not familiar with. If you investigate every creak or squeak you hear, youll be up and down like a bloody yo-yo all night and neither of us will get any rest. Go back to sleep. This is a holiday after all.

I suppose youre right, she said with a sigh. Goodnight; again.

Goodnight.

Moments later, they were both asleep.

A short time later, the bedroom door eased open and two men wearing black clothing crept in. If John or Lara had been awake, they might have heard the metallic ting as the Uzi brushed against the zip of one of the mens Berghaus fleece. With only a slight nod to his companion, both men opened fire on the sleeping couple.