The Price of Butcher's Meat (26 page)

“You have arrived,” said Posh Woman's voice confidently.

“You're a bloody liar,” said Edgar Wield.

He had been impressed as Posh directed him along a skein of unclassified byways mazy enough to confuse a Minotaur hunter, but she'd failed him at the last. The building he had halted beside bore a sign saying Lyke Farm whereas what he wanted was Lyke Farm Barn.

Time for human contact.

He climbed off the Thunderbird and banged on the oak door with a lion's-head knocker.

He had his ID open and ready. Normally he expected folk to take him as they found him, but in remote spots the combination of his leather riding gear and forbidding features sometimes required immediate reassurance.

The door opened and the doorway was filled by a huge red-faced man who didn't look as if he'd have been much bothered to find the devil himself on his doorstep.

“Detective Sergeant Wield,” said Wield, just to be on the safe side.

“Oh aye? It'll be about the murder. You'll be wanting young Fran, I daresay.”

Wield wasn't surprised. The speed with which news traveled across miles of empty space in rural Yorkshire would fill Bill Gates with envy.

“That's right. Mr. Roote,” he said. “I'm looking for Lyke Farm Barn.”

“Well, you've not looked hard enough. Back along the Sandytown road a quarter mile, lane end on your left just afore the dead oak, and there's a bloody great sign for them as can read.”

Wield did not feel reproved. He'd lived in a remote Yorkshire village for a few years now and knew that such apparent aggression was the equivalent of familiar domestic intercourse in metropolitan areas.

“Thank you, Mr…. er?”

“Sedgwick. Wally Sedgwick. You've not got him yet, then?”

“Got who?”

“Him as did for Daph Brereton, of course.”

“No, we haven't. Do you see a lot of Mr. Roote?”

“When he calls to pay the rent. My missus sees a lot more, keeping the place tidy for him like she does.”

“You own the barn then?”

“Oh aye. Got it done up a few years back when this bloody government started making it impossible to make a living by honest farming. Diversify, they said. Tek in lodgers, mek cream teas. Bugger that, I said. I'm not having a bunch of strangers clogging up my bathroom. But we got a grant to convert the barn to a holiday cottage.”

“But Mr. Roote lives there permanent?”

“Got a lease for a year, renewable. Didn't think it would work when I saw the state of him, but it's all on one floor and he forked out for a few changes. He said he wanted somewhere quiet so's he could work at his writing. And my missus said it 'ud be a lot easier than having someone new there every week during the summer, then the place sitting empty when the bad weather came. Think she felt a bit sorry for the lad, and he's got a sweet tongue on him when he talks to the ladies, no denying that! So we agreed a price plus a bit more for her doing the cleaning and a bit of cooking sometimes, so everyone's pleased all round.”

“Aye, sounds nice and cozy,” said Wield. “Bit of cooking, you say? Does a lot of entertaining, does he?”

“Shouldn't think so. What Maisie does is casseroles and such for Mr. Roote hisself. Puts them in the freezer. Of course he's well secluded, so I suppose he could be having wild parties every night, but the only folk I've ivver noticed ganging up that lane is Tom Parker and yon Denham lad on his bike.”

“Sir Edward, you mean?”

“Aye. Rides like a maniac. Yon things should be banned, that's what I say.”

He didn't except present company, Wield noted, as he said thanks and climbed back onto the Thunderbird.

A couple of minutes later he slowed down as he spotted the skeletal outline of a huge dead tree against the evening sky. There was the lane end. And Farmer Sedgwick had been right about the sign too, though perhaps not in every particular, thought Wield as he toed aside some veiling nettles to reveal a lump of granite with
LYKE FARM BARN
painted on it in flaking white gloss.

An ancient gate, attached to an even older flaking sandstone gatepost, barred entrance to the lane. It moved smoothly enough on its rusty hinges but it still must be a bloody nuisance to a guy in a wheelchair.

He rode carefully up the lane. Its surface was rutted and potholed, fine for a tractor or four-by-four perhaps, but day after day it couldn't do an ordinary car's suspension any good. When it rained, it must be a quagmire. After a hundred yards or so, above the roar of his own engine he heard another engine start up, and as he rounded a bend that brought a building into view, a motorbike came hurtling toward him, moving at twice his speed, with the black-leathered rider crouched low over the handlebars. For a second, collision seemed inevitable. Wield came to a halt and prepared to abandon ship. Then the other rider leaned sideways and swept past close enough for him to feel the wind of his passing.

“Wanker!” yelled Wield.

It had all happened too quickly for him to get the number, but at
a guess he'd have said the bike was a Buell Lightning, the long-base model.

He set off once more. Soon the track ran into a cobbled yard where a blue Kangoo was parked before the converted barn. Long and low and covered with cream-colored pebble dash, it showed little of its origins except perhaps for a disproportionately wide front doorway, which must be very useful to a wheelchair user.

The barn door was open, and as Wield dismounted, a figure in a wheelchair appeared on the threshold.

“Sergeant Wield! How nice to see you. I wondered who would come. Still riding the Thunderbird, I see. I thought I recognized that throaty growl as you came up the lane.”

The greeting was perfect in its form, but Roote's voice was a little breathless and his face a little flushed.

“I wonder you could hear anything above the noise made by yon Lightning. Was that Edward Denham? I thought he were going to ride right through me.”

“Oh dear,” said Roote. “I'm sorry about that. Yes. It was Teddy. Well spotted, and you've only been here two minutes! Your reputation for thoroughness is well deserved. I'll read Ted the riot act, or perhaps the Road Safety Act would be more appropriate. Happily, you survived and it's so good to see you, Sergeant Wield. How are you? You look so well, hardly changed at all.”

“I'm fine, Mr. Roote,” said Wield, wondering what had brought Ted Denham round to Lyke Farm Barn on this particular night.

“Come in, do,” said Roote, spinning the chair around and leading the way into a living room simply furnished with a low table and a wood-framed three-piece suite standing on a granite-flagged floor. The walls were whitewashed and there was no ceiling, just the sharp vee of the cruck-beamed roof, giving the room a slightly churchy feel. The twenty-first century was represented by a small flat-screen TV hung on one of the end walls and a wheelchair-height computer workstation.

Observing his visitor take all this in, Roote said, “There were rugs on the floor to make it all seem a bit more homely, but I asked Maisie if she'd mind taking them away. That way I get a smoother run and she gets more wear out of her rugs.”

“That would be Mrs. Sedgwick?”

“Sorry, I should have said. But what need when talking to Sergeant Wield? Anyone dear Peter rates so high is always going to be one step ahead of the game. How is he, by the way? And his lovely wife? And of course, their delightful daughter?”

Wield felt a frisson of pleasure at the praise at the same time as he consigned it to the recycle bin. His personal acquaintance with Roote was much slighter than Pascoe's or Dalziel's, but from listening to them and studying the records, he knew he was dealing with a master of misdirection who made most political spin doctors look like
Blue Peter
presenters.

“They're grand, all of them,” he said.

“Great! Now, can I offer you some refreshment, Mr. Wield?” said Roote. “No alcohol, of course. You're on duty. But I know how duty can devour time unawares for you chaps, leaving precious little space to devour anything else. So a cup of tea and a slice of cake? Maisie bakes an incredible Madeira loaf.”

“Thanks, no,” said Wield. “Just a few questions, then I'll be out of your hair.”

“No problem there then,” grinned Roote, running a hand over his shaven skull. “Sorry. Nervous frivolity. This is a truly terrible business with ramifications beyond the immediate ghastly tragedy. But I do not doubt your sensors have already begun to trace those out.”

“Always glad to use local knowledge to point us on the right track,” said Wield invitingly. When witnesses tried to control the direction of an interview, he often found it helpful to give them their head and see where they led.

“Lady Denham is…sorry…was a very important figure in Sandytown. I don't just mean socially, but economically. The times
they are a-changing, Mr. Wield, and a-changing faster than ever before. To stand still is to decline. Development is all, and here in Sandytown the main thrust of development has been in the safe hands of our two charismatic figures, Lady D herself and Tom Parker. Have you met Tom yet?”

“No, but he's being interviewed,” said Wield. “Got on all right, did they?”

Roote frowned and said, “Impossible not to get on with Tom, though it's true he and Lady D are two very different characters. In the hands of either alone, the good ship Sandytown would probably have quickly foundered—on the reefs of quick profits and personal gain under the captaincy of Lady D, or the shoals of vague idealism and personal obsession under the helmsmanship of Tom Parker. In other words, together they formed a team greater than the sum of its parts. Alas, with dear Daphne gone…”

He shook his head and looked tragic. He did it very well, Wield had to admit. Out of the mouths of many people those fancy words would have sounded merely overblown, but Roote gave them real force and life.

He said, “You're saying mebbe this could be a motive for killing Lady Denham? Wanting to wreck what she were doing in this consortium?”

“On Tom's part? Impossible. But others might see things differently, so it's a possibility. You might want to add it to your list of the usual motives.”

“Them being?”

“Money—who inherits? Sex—who has been scorned or impeded? Mental disturbance—who's off their chump?” replied Roote promptly.

“You've obviously thought a bit about this.”

“I had several years to contemplate the field of murder investigation, Sergeant Wield, with especial attention to the errors that an early false premise can lead even an honest and conscientious investigator into.”

He looked Wield straight in the eyes as he said this.

If he'd been selling me a used car, I'd be reaching for my wallet, thought the sergeant, who found he was almost enjoying himself. Nowt one expert likes more than seeing another at the top of his game.

But enough was enough. He'd seen where Roote wanted to take him, now it was time to rein him in.

“Right,” he said. “Thanks for that. Now about the party at Sandytown Hall. What time did you arrive, Mr. Roote?”

He took out his notebook, opened it, clicked his ballpoint, and held it poised to write. But the young man was not ready so easily to concede control.

“No need for that, Mr. Wield,” he said, smiling. “I knew you'd want a statement, so the first thing I did when I got back here with everything still fresh in my mind was…”

He picked up a plastic folder from the floor and handed it over.

“…write this.”

Wield opened the folder.

 

S
TATEMENT OF
F
RANCIS
X
AVIER
R
OOTE OF
L
YKE
F
ARM
B
ARN, NR
S
ANDYTOWN
, Y
ORKSHIRE

 

“Why don't I make us that cup of tea while you cast your eye over it, then you can ask any supplementary questions and I'll sign it in your presence?” said Roote.

“I'm impressed, Mr. Roote,” said Wield. “Bet if I'd come to arrest you, I'd have found you in handcuffs.”

Roote exploded a laugh.

“I can see you and I are going to get along famously, Sergeant,” he said.

He went toward a door that opened at his approach, giving Wield a glimpse into a kitchen. Everything was at wheelchair height: work surfaces, sink, electric oven. Presumably Roote had paid for the al
teration and would have to pay for the restoration when he vacated the property. The rumors of the high level of compensation, obtained in part at least through Pascoe's efforts, must be true. A setup like this, plus automatic doors, wouldn't come cheap. Wield found that the low-level oven in particular brought home the change in the young man's life even more than the sight of him in a wheelchair. He concentrated his attention on the statement.

It was clear in language, precise in description, concise in expression. Every sighting of Lady Denham was highlighted. None sounded significant. The only bit that caught Wield's interest came toward the end. When the storm started, Roote had taken shelter in the conservatory, where he sat in a quiet corner watching the play of lightning in the eastern sky.