A Death to Record (22 page)

Eliot stared at him, eyes slightly bulging. ‘Why in God’s name should I worry about
Heather
?’ he demanded. ‘It never crossed my mind. Surely she’s not pretending she ever loved him, or anything sick like that?’

Ted spluttered. ‘Her be his
wife
,’ he said.

Eliot let his head droop until his chin almost touched his chest. His shoulders shook slightly, his hands tight on the well-stuffed settee. Then he looked at his father again. ‘Yes, I know,’ he grated. ‘Heather was his wife. And I was just his
friend
– who nobody even bothered to inform of his death.’

Ted had had enough. ‘I be goin’ back to work,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t be here, this time of day. You get back, too. There’s be the sack for ’ee, if ’ee just walk off without a word. Sean O’Farrell’s gone, and there’s an end to it. Police coming and going, giving us all the willies. They be most likely wanting to know the reason why, if they catch ’ee hanging about the place looking like the world’s gone scatt. ’Tis likely to upset your mother, and I won’t have that. Get back to work and forget that bugger next door. Un never did ’ee no good, ’tis better off we’ll all be without’n, see if I’m not right.’

Eliot did as he was told. His father went ahead of him to the door, and as he pulled it wide, another thought struck him. ‘And clear up that midden out front,’ he ordered. ‘Been here too long as ’tis. Don’t know what us be thinking of, letting you dump it all here.’

Eliot swept the untidiness with a chastened gaze. ‘I forgot all about it,’ he confessed. ‘I’ll take one of the bikes with me now, in the back of the car. The rest’s just junk. I don’t know why I ever thought I wanted it.’

‘Thank Christ for that!’ Ted rejoiced.

His son frowned, and started to explain. ‘It’s just … moving house …’ he faltered. ‘I didn’t know …’

‘Don’t fret, son,’ said Ted. ‘You’ve had a bad time of it, but now’s the moment to set it all behind you. Make a new start, find yourself a nice girl.’

Eliot stared at the wintry fields across the lane. ‘You know, Dad – I might just do that,’ he said.

‘The Watson kids’ll be at school,’ Den remarked to Young Mike. ‘Home around four, I’d guess. That leaves most of the day with not a lot to do. Any suggestions?’

‘Lunch,’ said Mike firmly. ‘Didn’t we say we’d check West Tavy out?’

‘You mean the Six Bells?’ Den was distracted, his thoughts sluggish; he couldn’t immediately remember why they’d been interested in the pub at West Tavy.

‘Right. If we get there early we can have a word with the landlord. Didn’t the woman at the Limediggers tell you that Sean O’Farrell used to drink there?’

Den squeezed his eyes shut, trying to dispel images of Lilah confiding to Nugent the depths of her feelings for Hillcock. ‘Good idea. Except it’s barely eleven yet. Bit early for lunch.’

‘We can go the long way.’

‘Good idea,’ sighed Den. ‘Head for Bridestowe and then left. I always like that avenue of chestnuts, or whatever they are.’

‘Not so fine in January,’ said Mike, but took the road indicated, anyway.

Twenty minutes later, still uncomfortably early for lunch, they were approaching the tiny settlement of West Tavy. Tucked into the folds of the Devon countryside, on the edge of Dartmoor, it boasted panoramic views in one direction only. On all other sides it was sheltered by high hedges and tall trees, even in winter, with a sense of concealment and ancient ways at odds with modern laws and moralities.

As they got out of the car, Mike drew Den’s attention to a group of four men in green body warmers, gathered in a gateway, holding equipment comprising canisters and rubber tubing. Three large black plastic sacks sat on the ground at their feet. ‘What d’you think they’re up to?’ Mike wondered.

Den studied the group for a few moments. ‘Ministry men,’ he concluded. ‘I’d say they were gassing badgers. Not very discreet, either. Clever timing, though – broad daylight on a weekday, when the protesters are all at work or college. Filthy business, all the same. Looks as if they’ve had a productive morning.’ He nodded at the unmoving sacks.

‘What are they hoping to gain?’ Mike’s gaze was riveted on the group, with the inescapable fascination that Den himself felt for professional
killers. He knew they were pondering the question of whether it was right to cull wild animals, struggling with the inescapable dilemma between gut reaction and trust in the logic of officialdom.

‘Can’t be helped,’ Den muttered, turning away. ‘Let’s hope it’s a quick death for the poor things.’

The pub was cold and smoky; a sad-looking log fire had only recently been lit, and the wood must have been damp. The air smelt of stale beer and dust. ‘Bit different from the Limediggers,’ Mike observed in a low voice. There was no sign of anyone to serve them a drink.

Two other people were present: hard-looking men in their early thirties. One had long, lank hair tied in a greasy red bandanna, his face grooved like a much older man’s. The other had a prickly, close-cropped scalp, and a scrubby beard. Den didn’t think either of them were agricultural workers; they lacked that indefinably settled air, the look of endurance that he associated with men who worked all day with livestock.

‘Any chance of a drink around here?’ he said loudly.

‘You want Beryl. She’ll be back in a minute,’ said the long-haired drinker.

‘I see the cull’s underway, then,’ Den continued. ‘Can’t mistake those Ministry men out there.’

The two did not react other than with curt nods and a semi-shrug from the crop-headed
one. Den concluded that they held no brief for badgers, or perhaps for any living creatures, humans included. It was tempting to stereotype them as mere louts, so morally bankrupt that any feelings of kindness or sympathy were utterly out of the question. But Den did not like to write people off so easily.

‘People round here think the cull’s okay, do they?’ he pursued.

‘More or less,’ agreed Long Hair, evidently the talkative half of the pair.

‘Because TB’s such a problem in the dairy herds, right?’

‘Right.’

A woman appeared behind the bar – faded blonde, weary-looking, wiping her hands on a grey tea towel. ‘What’re you having?’ she asked, with no sign of curiosity or surprise at their appearance.

Den scanned the paucity of handles lined in front of the woman: two kinds of bitter, cider and Stella Artois. ‘Pint of bitter, please,’ he said cautiously. ‘Any chance of food?’

‘Ham sandwich, cheese sandwich – and there might be a bit of roast beef left. I can have a look if you like.’

Den looked at Mike, who unenthusiastically indicated a preference for Stella and a ham sandwich. Den decided to skip the food. Beryl
produced the drinks and wandered away to see to the sandwich. There was no sign of anyone else on the premises; no distant clattering in a kitchen or footsteps overhead.

‘She runs this place on her own, does she?’ Den asked Long Hair and his friend.

‘Lunchtime, yeah. Not much business this time o’ year.’

‘Sean O’Farrell drank here, didn’t he?’ Den made a firm assumption that the news of Sean’s death was thoroughly spread by this time.

The slightest flicker of wariness was manifested: eyes narrowing, lips hardening. ‘What if he did?’

‘Must have been a shock to everyone who knew him.’

‘There’s few who’ll be sorry.’

‘What about you?’

Another shrug. Crop Head sniffed noisily, but Den didn’t think the sound denoted grief. ‘Do I take it you’re not much bothered?’

‘You the police?’ Crop Head asked suddenly. ‘Axing all these questions.’

‘CID,’ Den confirmed. ‘Just looking for some background info on O’Farrell. What sort of bloke he was; who might not have liked him. The usual sort of thing.’ He swigged his beer between phrases.

‘Lived dangerously, did Sean,’ Long Hair
muttered. ‘Never cared much what people thought of him.’

‘So who do you think killed him?’ The question, direct and without warning, was intended to take them unawares.

‘Gordon Hillcock, of course,’ came the easy answer. ‘If you’re choosing between Hillcock and poor old Ted Speedwell, there’s no contest. And who else would walk into Dunsworthy yard in broad daylight, just before milking?’ The man guffawed cynically. ‘Not much need for CID heavies on this one, I’d have thought.’

Den nodded amicably and eyed Mike as he gamely embarked on the thick sandwich made with dry white bread and slender slices of ham. ‘Sounds as if you know all about it,’ he observed.

‘Saw it on the news,’ said the man. ‘And everyone with a sister between Exeter and Launceston knows Gordon Hillcock.’

From outside there was the sound of slamming car doors; Den moved to the window. The green-clad Ministry men were climbing into a Range Rover in the pub car park. The black sacks and gassing equipment were nowhere to be seen – evidently they’d been stashed in the back. He watched the men as they remained in the vehicle, passing packets and bottles to each other. ‘Seems they don’t rate the lunches here,’ he muttered to nobody in particular.

Ten minutes later, both the Ministry Land Rover and the blue police car left the Six Bells. As Den and Mike drove out into the narrow country lane, following the Land Rover, a second vehicle appeared from the right. An elderly Metro, it hooted aggressively and seemed to be trying to intercept the Range Rover. If so, it failed.

‘Why are they hooting?’ wondered Mike.

‘They’re not really trying to catch them,’ Den guessed. ‘Just making their feelings known.’

The Ministry vehicle accelerated away as quickly as the winding lanes would permit. Den tried to see the occupants of the Metro. There were four of them, all apparently young. As the driver thrust it into gear and set it moving in pursuit of the Range Rover, Den recognised Sam Watson on the back seat.

‘Guess we won’t have to wait till after school now,’ said Mike, when Den had told him who he’d recognised. They were conducting a somewhat jerky car chase. Ahead of them the Metro was still hooting aggressively at the Ministry Range Rover, which ignored them completely, driving frustratedly through the narrow country lanes.

‘It’ll be interesting when we reach the main road,’ said Den.

In the event it was all over very quickly. The Ministry men evidently had their strategy honed to a fine art, and took an unexpected diversion up an even narrower lane on the left. The Metro almost overshot the turning and stalled. Den
elected to wait until it got started again, still unsure as to whether the young driver had even noticed the car following close behind him. At the end of the new lane, a right turn, followed quickly by another left, took traffic out onto the Plymouth road. The Metro had no hope of catching up and Den and Mike watched the faltering reduction in speed as the pursuers realised they had lost their quarry.

‘Best just follow them quietly,’ Den decided. ‘Don’t want them doing anything silly.’

It didn’t take long. Within ten minutes the Metro was pulling into the front driveway of a neat semi-detached house. Den was standing beside the car before all four had got out of it.

‘Sam Watson?’ he asked the girl from the back seat. ‘You might remember me.’

Startled, she stared up at him, obviously wondering where he had come from, how and why. It took her several seconds to remember where she had last seen him. ‘You’re that detective that was in the Limediggers,’ she said eventually. The others clustered round wordlessly, their faces pictures of anxiety, curiosity and bewilderment. Young Mike remained beside the police car, no more than a casual bystander, to all appearances. In reality, he was effectively blocking the exit to the driveway, in case somebody opted to make a dash for it.

‘We’d like you to come with us,’ Den told Sam calmly. ‘We’ll drive you home and ask a few questions there.’

‘What – now?’ Her head went jerkily round the circle of her friends, one by one, as if searching for elucidation as to what might be happening. ‘But I need to be back at school—’

‘She didn’t do anything,’ said the boy who had been on the back seat with her. ‘She wasn’t driving. Why are you picking on her?’

‘This has nothing to do with what we’ve just observed,’ Den told him. ‘It was our good luck that we happened on you the way we did. Nobody’s saying she did anything; we just want to ask her a few questions, to assist us with our enquiries.’

The boy frowned. ‘More enquiries?’ He scratched his neck and stared at the bare hedge bordering the front garden.

‘That’s right. Now Sam, if you’re ready?’

‘You don’t have to go, Sam,’ the boy urged. ‘They can’t make you.’

Den took out his notebook and pencil. ‘While I’m here, I’d better make a note of your names,’ he decided. ‘Just in case. After all, you have just been trying to interfere with government business, if I’m not mistaken. Let’s see if I’ve got this right. You must be Jeremy Page …’

The boy nodded grudgingly. Den went on.
‘And you two are Susie Marchand and Paul Tyler, if I remember rightly?’ He eyed the driver and the girl who had been in the front passenger seat. ‘What happened to Davy Champion, then?’

Jeremy Page said nothing, but scowled blackly and Den became aware of a suppressed rage that had violence threaded through it. The boy’s fists were clenched and his chin raised defiantly. Den recognised the type: a youngster accustomed to regular knocks to his adolescent pride, either from a domineering father or a peer group that scorned him. Den suspected the former. The terrier-like defiance gave it away: the boy was used to someone bigger than him throwing his weight about, so all he could effectively do was duck and yap and keep his spirit alive by a dogged refusal to cringe.

‘Okay. Thanks very much,’ Den said amiably. Ushering a wordless Sam into the back of the car with no ceremony, he told Mike to drive straight to the Watson house.

The interview with Sam took slightly over half an hour. Deirdre showed them into the living room, having expressed angry surprise that her daughter had bunked off school, and then ostentatiously left the threesome alone with a sharply-closed door between herself and them.

‘Don’t worry about this,’ Den tried to reassure
the girl. ‘It’s just a minor avenue of investigation that we’re exploring. You’re not in any trouble, as far as I can see.’

She sat on the sofa at Den’s command. He had scanned the room as they entered it and positioned Sam on the most comfortable seat, keen to put her at her ease. He and Mike took matching upholstered chairs, side by side, facing her. Mike had his notebook open and ready. She stared at them truculently.

‘Can you tell us as much as possible about the badger-baiting business around here?’ he invited. ‘Including what you know about Sean O’Farrell. We’re interested in facts
and
rumours, okay?’

‘I don’t know anything about Sean O’Farrell,’ she said with a flat stare.

‘But your friend Susie said he was one of the enemy. I take that to mean that you think he kills badgers illegally, perhaps along with other animals you want to protect. The woman in the bar on Wednesday told us that Sean didn’t agree with the cull. I’m finding all this quite confusing, to be honest. Gordon Hillcock doesn’t like it, either, as I understand it. You seem like a bit of an expert – why don’t you explain it to me?’

Sam chewed the inside of her cheek and Den felt a rush of irritation at the involvement of surly
schoolgirls in the investigation. As witnesses, they were very hard going.

‘Come on, Sam,’ he urged.

‘Okay.’ She raised an open hand to indicate she was sorting out her thoughts. After a pause, she began to speak. ‘It’s complicated, right? The cull is just a part of it. There’s other groups working on that – taking the legal side and trying to stop it that way. They’re proper professionals, but we’re not like that. We just want to do our bit to save wildlife in this area. We’re not
organised
or anything. We talk to people, mainly, try to make them see it from the animals’ point of view. That’s the future for conservation, you know.’ Her eyes were beginning to shine with the conviction behind her words. ‘It’s no good just waving placards and sabotaging hunts and culls. It’s got to go deeper than that. You’ve got to change people’s minds.’

‘And Sean O’Farrell?’ Den prompted.

‘He was on our blacklist,’ she said uneasily.

‘Oh?’

‘We think he was involved in baiting and lamping. He wanted all the badgers in the area wiped out, and didn’t think the cull would make a proper job of it. Plus Dunsworthy’s outside the cull area anyway. So he set out to do it himself.’

‘But his daughter’s got a pet badger,’ Young
Mike put in. ‘How does he square that, then?’

‘Has she really? How funny. Of course, he let Abby do whatever she liked. He felt guilty, I guess, because she has such a rubbish time with her mum. Who knows what he might have done to it in the end, anyway?’

‘But you didn’t like Sean’s campaign?’

She shifted uneasily, pulling her feet up under her. ‘He was one of the old sort – that’s what we call them. People who don’t think animals have any proper feelings, so it’s okay to kill them if they’re a nuisance. We want to get away from that sort of thinking.’

Den scratched his head with his pencil. ‘I’m still not quite following,’ he admitted. ‘You said it was important to talk to people. Did you actually talk to Sean about it?’

She grinned, a surprisingly rueful, quirky expression, suggestive of a powerfully vivid memory. ‘We tried,’ she said. ‘It ended up as a shouting match. It was with my mum, not me,’ she added.

‘When was this?’

‘A couple of weeks before Christmas. It was a school bazaar thing. Very embarrassing, actually. Matthew was there, too. Anyway, Abigail O’Farrell was running a Year Ten raffle and the prize was this big stuffed badger. Abigail’s dad started on about the cull and my
mum heard him and told him he was an idiot. It didn’t last very long, but they said some pretty strong things.’

‘Such as?’

‘Oh …’ she inhaled deeply, gathering strength. ‘Mr O’Farrell said the only good badger was a dead badger, or a stuffed one, and Abigail went very red. One of her classmates told him he should respect animals’ rights, and that set him off. He said it was all one big jungle out there and you had to kill anything that threatened your livelihood, or you were bound to go to the dogs. Then Mum joined in. She told Sean he should learn some sense and that people like him weren’t qualified to speak about such things. That was when—’ The girl paused, clenching her jaw.

‘When what?’ Den prompted.

‘Well … I wasn’t sure what he meant, but he said something like, “You’re a fine one to talk with your mucky ways.” And he sorted of
leered
at her. It was really horrible; it made us all feel dirty.’

‘What did your mum do?’

‘She went very pale and didn’t say another thing. As if she was
scared
of him. He had this
vicious
look on his face, as if he really hated her. It only lasted a couple of minutes, but it was a bit of a shock. I mean – she does the recording
at Dunsworthy – she’s not meant to fall out with them.’

‘Did you know that Abigail keeps a pet badger? Before Mike here mentioned it?’

She shook her head. ‘Brave girl,’ she remarked.

‘And her father fed it for her when she stayed overnight at her boyfriend’s.’

‘Nah!’ she protested. ‘Don’t give me that.’

‘That’s what her mother claims.’

Sam hesitated. ‘As I say, he’d have done just about anything for Abby. If it was locked up properly, he might have thought it was okay.’

‘So is your mum involved with the animal rights thing?’

For the first time in the interview, the girl seemed agitated. ‘She doesn’t talk to me about it,’ she stammered.

‘But—?’

‘But nothing. It’s only that she gets upset when she sees anybody being cruel to animals. She gives money to CWF—’

‘Which is?’

‘Compassion in World Farming.’

‘And everyone seems to agree that Sean O’Farrell was cruel to animals,’ Den said.

‘Right. Like Susie says, he’s one of the enemy.’

‘Did Matthew know him?’

‘Matt? No, not at all. He was just somebody’s dad, as far as Matt was concerned.’

The interview drifted to a close after that. It was half past two and Sam pointed out to them that they’d made her miss a Psychology lesson. ‘What am I supposed to say?’ she asked, with a bold look at Den. ‘Sorry, Miss – I was helping the police with their enquiries?’

‘Den smiled non-committally. ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something,’ he said.

Den and Mike adjourned to the car for a debriefing. ‘What do you think?’ Den asked carefully.

‘O’Farrell had something on Mrs Watson. Something “mucky”.’

‘Right,’ agreed Den thoughtfully. ‘Sounds a bit strong, don’t you think?’

‘’Specially in a public place.’

‘She didn’t tell me about it when I saw her on Wednesday.’ His head was humming with disquiet. ‘Seems to me that Deirdre Watson had nothing but contempt for O’Farrell. And wouldn’t you say it’s easier to kill someone you utterly despise?’

‘Like Sean with badgers, you mean?’ Mike offered ironically, one eyebrow raised. ‘I didn’t really get that impression from Sam. More that her mother was frightened of him, and didn’t know what he might do.’

Den acknowledged the point. ‘But the way he
was killed – isn’t that how you’d kill a rat? Just hurl a fork at it. Exterminating vermin.’

‘Women don’t kill vermin,’ Mike said, only half joking. ‘They call in a Council operative or get their husbands to do it.’

‘This is getting fanciful,’ Den objected.

‘No, it’s useful,’ Mike contradicted. ‘It gives us a feel for the frame of mind of the killer. For why someone might want Sean dead.’

‘O’Farrell was on those kids’ blacklist. He was seen as the enemy. And yet he was a good dad to Abigail, a good husband to that drippy wife. And a reliable herdsman.’

‘But you’re right – he does sound like a rat to me,’ Mike realised. ‘Rats have families – but they’re completely self-interested. They make other creatures recoil. Isn’t that what we’re picking up, that everyone except his wife and daughter recoiled from him? For whatever reason.’

‘There’s that friend, Eliot Speedwell. We ought to go and see him this evening, and get his side of the picture. He also knocked about with Fred Page.’

‘He’s not likely to tell us anything.’

The car phone rang. ‘Hemsley,’ Den predicted correctly, as he lifted it from its cradle.

‘Any progress?’ the Inspector asked.

‘We’ve spoken to the Watson girl. She gave us
a few things to think about,’ Den summarised. ‘The boy’s due home at four, so we’re waiting for him. Though I’ve no idea what we’ll say to him. We haven’t got anything to link him with O’Farrell, apart from the anonymous letter. Sam says he never knew the man.’

Hemsley was silent for a moment. ‘Forget him for now,’ he ordered. ‘It was probably just malicious gossip, as you said. There must be more important people for you to see.’

‘Right, sir,’ said Den, with some relief. ‘By the way, the uniforms have been round all the local farmers, haven’t they? Asking if they saw anything unusual or know of any reason why the man should be attacked?’

‘They have,’ the DI confirmed. ‘Not a sniff of anything suspicious, or I’d have told you.’

‘We thought we should see Eliot Speedwell as soon as he gets back from work. And, sir, there was a little incident earlier today you should know about.’ And Den told the Inspector all about their encounter with the group of youngsters and the Ministry men. He told it in careful detail, repeating the names of the animal group members and pointing out the network that seemed to link them to each other and to Dunsworthy. It took almost ten minutes, with Young Mike chipping in.

‘Get yourselves back here and file a report,’
Hemsley ordered. ‘Then grab some tea and toast before you go to see young Mr Speedwell.’