A Death to Record (12 page)

Deirdre had another farm to record that afternoon. One of her earliest ones, starting at two-thirty in the afternoon and three-thirty in the morning. Perversely, it was one of her favourites, even in the winter. The cows were friendly and relaxed, and the calf-pen adjacent to the office, so she could watch their antics as she filled in the events of the previous month. And, unlike Dunsworthy, Streamside Farm was lavish with straw, ensuing that the animals were clean and their legs undamaged.

She arrived promptly at one-thirty, allowing a full hour for the laborious paperwork necessitated by burgeoning quantities of government regulations.
The Streamside herd boasted one hundred and eighty cows, the majority of them scheduled to calve in the autumn. This meant that there were sixty-five ‘services’, by five different bulls, to be documented. Fast as she was, it comprised an onerous and irritating job. Miraculously, the laptop seemed to have recovered from its vapours of the previous day, and submissively absorbed all the data without a single recalcitrant
beep
.

The milking parlour was far from being in the first flush of youth, with six stalls on either side, and scarcely space in the well between for two people to move in without knocking into each other. Deirdre was well accustomed to the intimacy this involved, and she and Tom had long ago ceased to laugh and apologise every time they collided. She was skilful in anticipating his next move, and managed, most of the time, to stay out of his way. But the meters from which she obtained her samples were at floor level, so she had to bend or squat to reach them. More than once, Tom found himself bumping backsides with her, as he worked on the opposite row of cows.

They talked idly about the weather, caught up with how Christmas and the excesses of the new year had treated them, and only then cautiously sidled up to the subject of the events at Dunsworthy.

‘You heard, then,’ Deirdre said, knowing full
well the answer. The bulk tanker driver, assorted reps, even the postman, would all have spread the news in the time-honoured fashion.
What
price the Internet?
Deirdre thought to herself.
It’s never going to improve on this!

‘Heard you were there at the time,’ he grinned back at her. Tom was fifty-five, energetic, unworried even in the face of his industry’s darkest hour. Murder on a nearby farm wasn’t going to throw him into any sort of a spin.

‘That’s right,’ she said, giving nothing away.

‘Nobody’s saying just how it happened,’ he prompted her. ‘Percy Fielding said he heard Sean’d been trampled by one of the cows. Have they still got that great Simmental bull?’

She shook her head. ‘I think he’s got that a bit wrong,’ she said. There were three more hours of milking still to go – plenty of time to feed him the story, little by little. Plenty of time to select exactly which details she was going to share with him. The image of Gordon’s contorted face, the things that had gone unsaid between him and her – those were definitely to be edited out.

Much later, Tom paused after attaching a row of clusters, and summarised. ‘So poor old Sean was definitely murdered? Some people were saying it was most likely suicide. Plenty of farmers topping themselves these days. And Sean was a miserable sod a lot of the time. It could
have been that. But didn’t they take Gordon in for questioning?’

She nodded.

‘So they must think he did it? Right?’

Deirdre wouldn’t commit herself on that point. ‘Who knows what they think?’ she said, before embarking on another row of sample retrieval.

As often happened, conversation gained momentum at the very end of the milking. Having checked that all her pots were filled, and that everything tallied, Deirdre watched Tom release the final row of cows. ‘How well did you know Sean?’ she asked him, as they enjoyed a moment of satisfaction at another milking accomplished.

He met her gaze. ‘Can’t say he was my closest friend – nor anything like it. Saw him in the pub now and then at dinnertime.’

‘What, the Limediggers?’

‘No, no. The Bells, in West Tavy. You must know that’s where they get together.’

‘Seems a bit of a way to go for lunch.’ It was often good policy to pretend to a greater ignorance than was genuine. If the police started to investigate the herdsmen’s ‘protest group’, she didn’t want it supposed by local farmworkers that they’d learnt about it from her.

‘It’s where we all go on a Thursday, when we can get away,’ Tom elaborated. ‘’Specially in
winter.’ Something in his manner alerted her; he seemed to be half-regretting being drawn into this conversation.

‘You make it sound like a meeting of Freemasons,’ she said lightly. ‘What do you all talk about?’

‘This’n’that. It’s good to get off the farm for an hour or two. I only go once in a blue moon, myself. It’s mostly herdsmen – not the farmers. Makes me feel a bit out of place, to be honest.’

‘And this was something Sean went to regularly, was it?’

‘One of the keenest, so they say.’ Deirdre recognised the impulse to talk that most of the men she worked with suffered from. ‘Sean was a bit of a weirdo,’ he went on, with a grimace that showed he knew he shouldn’t say such a thing about a dead man. ‘Always thinking up some new subject that he thought we should chew over. Some of the chaps thought he was a pain in the backside, to be honest. And there was something …’ He paused, eyeing her uneasily. ‘I oughtn’t to speak ill of him, now. He didn’t deserve what happened to him – whatever it was.’

‘That’s true. But I didn’t find him an easy man to like either,’ she encouraged. ‘He looked as if he had a lot of secrets. And that wife of his – I never thought he could be quite such a saint as he made himself out to be, where she was concerned.’

Tom spluttered at that. ‘Saint! No way. You’re right about the secrets, too. We none of us know the half of it, but there’ve been rumours.’

‘Oh?’

His glance slid away, unease plainly increasing. ‘Well, the usual sort of stuff. Badgers, mainly.’

‘What? Badger baiting?’ She widened her eyes at him. ‘Sean? Not just lamping – you mean real baiting, with dogs and everything?’

‘Sshh,’ he warned her, although there was nobody around to hear. ‘It’s only a rumour. I’ve never heard anything definite. But Fred Page has got that Staffordshire bull terrier, which always seems to have some sort of injury – and Sean was very matey with Fred. We all like to pretend it doesn’t happen, but we know it does. Cock fighting, as well. Not that I mind that particularly – bloody things’ll fight to the death whether people set them up to it or not. But the badger thing’s different altogether. Sick.’ His face puckered at the thought.

‘Yes,’ Deirdre agreed distractedly. ‘Well, he’s dead now, anyway.’

‘Yeah,’ Tom agreed. ‘And it’ll be hard to find anybody that’s sorry.’

‘Right – time we got some lunch,’ Den announced, as he and Young Mike emerged from the O’Farrell cottage. ‘Know any good places round here?’

Mike considered. ‘There’s the Limediggers, couple of miles away. My dad used to go there once in a while. Probably changed hands and been grocklised by now, but I reckon it’s the nearest.’

‘Right then.’ Den was in no mood to argue.

The Limediggers Free House stood flush with the road, space for cars carved out of an adjacent field and a sad-looking garden on a sloping bank behind it, boasting three or four picnic-style tables. Not exactly
grocklised
, but enough to tempt a scatter of hungry passing tourists in the season. Den expected to find it empty at one-thirty on a January Wednesday.

He was wrong. Inside, there was one large bar, with high-backed antique seats, many of them turned to face a massive log fire. At the back of the room tables were set up for meals; all of them were in use. There was a babble of voices, a clatter of cutlery and the welcoming scent of woodsmoke. It was also very warm.
Thank God for plain clothes
, thought Den, peeling off his thick jacket almost at once.

But the plain clothes failed to serve their pretended purpose. It was quickly evident that most of the people present knew just who he and Mike were. Den’s height, and the fact that he’d grown up in Okehampton and gone to the local school, made him a familiar figure.

The landlady was slim and nervy. She rushed up and down the bar trying to anticipate orders almost before they were out of people’s mouths. If they hesitated between ham and cheddar cheese sandwiches, she jittered impatiently on the spot. She looked to be about forty-five, and was clearly determined to appear at least ten years younger. When Den approached her, she frowned up at him. ‘If you want food, you’ll have to order it now. The kitchen closes at two.’

‘We’ll have two stilton ploughmans,’ he said briskly. ‘And two pints of Bass. Okay?’

‘Fine,’ she shot back at him, glancing automatically along the bar to check for any incipient queues. Nobody showed the slightest sign of needing her services.

‘Does Gordon Hillcock drink here?’ he asked the woman, as she set the pints down in front of him. Mike had taken up a position on one of the high-backed seats, and was gazing dreamily into the blazing logs.

‘From Dunsworthy?’ she made a show of asking, although Den knew she’d been anticipating the question. He nodded. ‘Now and then,’ she admitted. ‘He and his family generally come here for their supper on a Thursday.’

‘Every week?’

She nodded carelessly.

‘What about Sean O’Farrell? Did he drink here?’

The woman laughed. ‘That’ll be the day.’ She glanced at a group of young drinkers ranged along a wooden bench. ‘Six Bells lot, he was. Wouldn’t go down too well if he’d ’a shown his face here.’

Den examined the group: three boys and two girls, leaning in together, talking intently. ‘Who are they?’ he asked. ‘Students?’

‘One or two might be. Couple of them work at the Nature Conservancy. They’re an animal rights group.’

Den looked more closely, but failed to recognise any of the youngsters, in spite of the clue. He’d been involved with animal rights people before – hunt protesters specifically – and this group was evidently something different.

‘So why wouldn’t they get along with O’Farrell?’ he asked the impatient landlady.

‘Why ask me?’ she demanded, casting worried looks around the bar. ‘It’s got nothing to do with me.’

‘Just answer the question,’ he told her fiercely. ‘You know full well who I am. This is a murder inquiry, in case you didn’t realise. Do you want me to formally take you in for questioning? I think you’d find that a lot more embarrassing.’

She tossed her head, refusing to be intimidated. ‘Well, it’s no secret,’ she said defiantly. ‘Sean O’Farrell had it in for badgers. He didn’t like
this limited cull business – said they should all be shot, for giving his cows TB. Shouted his mouth off about it everywhere he went.’

Den nodded his thanks, and left it at that. He knew when he’d pushed someone to the limit.

Mike was waiting for him close to the roaring log fire, and Den took the beer over. ‘I’m just going to have a chat with that little lot,’ he said, tilting his head towards the five young people. ‘Won’t be long.’

There was no room for him to sit down, so he leant over one end of the bench, an arm stretched along its width to support him. ‘Hiya,’ he said affably. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Den Cooper, in case you’re wondering. Mind if I have a quick word?’

Nearest him was a girl in her late teens, with a thick knitted scarf hanging loose around her neck. Something about her seemed familiar. She looked up at him enquiringly, her broad face showing no trace of suspicion or wariness. Next to her sat a stocky youth, bundled into a navy fleece jacket; he showed more signs of anxiety. ‘It’d help if I could just have your names,’ Den added in a quiet voice.

‘What for?’ demanded the youth. The whole row was now staring at him in silence.

Den squatted down, and kept his face blank. ‘You’ve probably heard that there was a fatality at Dunsworthy yesterday?’

Various expressions of ignorance came from all five. The girl nearest him seemed seriously alarmed. ‘
Dunsworthy?
’ she repeated. ‘My mum goes there. I think she was there yesterday – yes, I’m sure she was.’

‘Who’s your mum?’

‘Watson. Deirdre Watson.’
Aha
, thought Den. Hence the familiar face. She had her mother’s hair and jawline, and direct gaze.

‘Sam?’ the boy at the other end of the row called her. ‘What’s he talking about?’

‘You honestly don’t know?’ Den found it hard to believe them. ‘Everybody else here seems to have heard all about it.’ He swept the bar with his gaze, noticing that nobody would meet his eye.

‘We’re too busy for gossip,’ said the girl righteously. ‘We’re having a meeting.’

‘This isn’t gossip. This is a friendly chat, made in the course of our enquiries. The fact is, Sean O’Farrell, the Dunsworthy herdsman, died yesterday. If you watch the local telly, or read the
Morning News
tomorrow, you’ll hear all about it, I shouldn’t wonder. How many of you knew him?’

‘O’Farrell?’ said the girl in the middle of the row. ‘We don’t like him.’

The childish simplicity of the statement seemed to annoy her friends. ‘Susie!’ two of them reproached her.

‘Well, we don’t. Everybody knows he’s one of the enemy.’

‘It’s okay,’ Den cut through the growing mutters flying between them. ‘I know about the badgers. Look—’ he stood up again, and produced his notebook. ‘Just a quick list of names and addresses, and if it seems important, we’ll maybe get back to you with a few more questions. And I’ll leave you my number, so you can phone me if you think there’s anything I ought to know. Right?’

One by one they recited their details, their tones varying from an eagerness to please (Susie Marchand) to a noticeable sullenness (Jeremy Page – the stocky lad next to Sam Watson). The remaining two identified themselves as Paul Tyler and Gary Champion, who seemed the oldest by some years. Den ventured one step further. ‘Have any of you any connections with Dunsworthy?’

Those on both sides of Gary Champion nudged him encouragingly. ‘My kid brother’s girlfriend lives there,’ he admitted. ‘Abigail O’Farrell. But I hadn’t heard what’d happened to her dad,’ he added earnestly. Den noted him as a slow learner, more comfortable around people younger than himself.