Tainted Ground

by Margaret Duffy

  I took a slow stroll as Patrick went off to knock at the farmhouse door, there being no one about. He returned quite quickly.

  ‘He doesn’t work here now but has done in the past. They still had his mobile number.’

  Shaun Brown, it transpired, was mending fences on Landsdown and the directions of how we might find him, if we wished to speak with him immediately, were complicated.

  ‘Well, if we hadn’t had this bus we’d have had to borrow a Land Rover,’ Patrick said. ‘Shall I drive? For some odd reason I can remember the way better then.’

  As a result of all that military training and service in various middles of nowhere, I thought.

  We were greeted by a somewhat surprised smile when we arrived on a windy ridge with wide-ranging views over Somerset, having climbed steeply, crossed two streams and had to stop and open and close three gates.

  ‘Mornin’,’ said our quarry, laying aside his tools.

  Patrick produced his warrant card. ‘We’re here in connection with the murders at Hagtop Farm and a couple of other cases. When were you last at the farm?’

  Brown’s brow furrowed and he squinted into the bright distance as he sought to remember. He was a personable man, in his late twenties or early thirties, definitely a hewer of wood or drawer of water but nevertheless appearing, even at first glance and despite his comparative youth, to be imbued with that quality that I can only call country wisdom.

  ‘Must have been about this time last year,’ he said. ‘When Stonelake threw me out, sayin’ I’d helped myself to diesel. He’d decided he didn’t need me no more and used it as an excuse not to pay my final week’s wages.’

  ‘Were you aware that stolen property was hidden on the premises?’

  The other guffawed. ‘It was no secret that the man was on all kinds of fiddles but I needed the money real bad so who’d go searchin’ around looking for trouble?’ After a pause he said, ‘Stonelake’s a chip off the old block – his dad was worse in a way. I used to like the old lady, though, she was a real rose in a patch of thorns.’

  ‘You weren’t involved in any scams of his?’ The question was asked lightly but the intense stare was as good as nailing Brown to his own handiwork.

  ‘No, I wasn’t,’ he replied. ‘I’ve never done anythin’ illegal. Not in my whole life.’

  ‘Did he get many visitors to the farm when you were there?’

  ‘Dodgy ones, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, if you like.’

  ‘Sometimes. Some of them were reps, I s’pose. God knows who the others were. I kept right out of it.’

  ‘Are you aware of ever having met the murder victims?’

  ‘No, I haven’t been near Hinton Littlemoor since I left Hagtop last winter. In case I bumped into him and lost my temper. It’s daft but some local people think the place is cursed, seeing there’ve been deaths there in the past and then all the animals being killed in the foot-and-mouth outbreak. Tainted ground, one lady I spoke to called it.’

  ‘Have you ever heard any gossip, anywhere, linking Keith Davies, one of the victims, with Brian Stonelake?’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Did Stonelake ask you to take stuff anywhere – things that weren’t really connected to your everyday work?’

  ‘No. Oh, logs. I delivered those with a tractor and trailer.’

  ‘And unloaded them yourself?’

  ‘Mostly. Sometimes if it was fairly local, but at big houses, nobs’ places, I’d leave the trailer overnight and their gardener or handyman would unload them. Stonelake used to go himself to collect it, and the money, the next day. He always went for the money – didn’t trust no one.’

  ‘Can you drive a JCB?’

  ‘Yes, of course. You have to be able to handle a digger in my job.’

  ‘Do you own one?’

  ‘Wish I did.’

  ‘Where were you last Sunday night into Monday morning?’

  ‘At home, with the wife.’

  ‘Are there any other witnesses to your having been at home?’

  Brown was getting annoyed. ‘Only the baby. What’s this all about, then?’

  ‘Haven’t you heard? Someone dug up Barney Stonelake’s coffin.’

  This latest development had not had time to reach the presses.

  Brown was horrified. ‘You think that was me? I’m a churchgoing man, I am. Ask our priest, Father Nairn.’

  Patrick was unrepentant. ‘Do you know anyone who would? For cash? Plus someone else with a van?’

  There was a silence.

  ‘Think,’ Patrick prompted. ‘Two or three reprobates as thick as thieves with access to earth-moving equipment and vehicles. From Southdown St Peter, perhaps? That’s where quite a few villains live.’

  After another long pause Brown said, ‘But if I give you any names and they’ve done nothing wrong …’

  Patrick was all charm now. ‘You’re on a complete winner. I take all the responsibility and if they get leaned on but have done nothing wrong they won’t know who mentioned their names. If they’re guilty you’re vindicated.’

  ‘You could try the Tanner brothers. But they don’t live at Southdown, they’re from Hinton Littlemoor, or at least, they live in one of those old miners’ cottages that are away from the village up towards the plantation. Take care, though, don’t take the lady here with you. They’re real rough. Always in trouble, pickin’ on people smaller than themselves.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Patrick said. ‘Sorry to have taken up your time.’

  The trainee then took Brown’s address in case we wanted to talk to him again. On an afterthought I asked him, ‘What’s the name of Stonelake’s dog?’

  ‘Whisky. It’s a bearded collie under all the muck.’

  For some reason the name filled me with gloom.

  On the way back to Bath, Patrick pulled off the road into a pub car park.

  ‘Lunch?’ he enquired.

  ‘And decision time,’ I told him. ‘No beer.’

  ‘You’re right on both counts,’ he groaned, getting out. ‘Just plenty of clear-headedness.’

  ‘OK, this has got to be resolved,’ Patrick said, when we had taken the edge off our hunger with excellent roast-beef sandwiches. ‘I propose – and this is just something I’m putting on the table, so to speak, as you’re involved as well – that when we next see Carrick face to face I offer to throw in the towel. We’ll watch his reaction. If he jumps on the nearest table and dances a hornpipe we’ll jack it in. If not, we stay. If he swithers, politely, we go anyway. How’s that?’

  ‘Well, I don’t want to go solo,’ I said. ‘I haven’t actually finally decided to be your Watson, not in a hands-on capacity. Yes, I’ll go for that suggestion.’

  ‘Fine, so that’s on hold until the big moment arrives. Until then, what have we got? Not a lot other than the Tanner brothers. I like the sound of them, just the sort of hairy bullies I could do with giving my knuckles a workout on.’

  ‘Tell James what you’re doing this time,’ I urged. ‘Keep everything on the line so he doesn’t feel left out.’

  ‘I intend to.’ He went outside to phone. When he returned he looked worried. ‘James knows of them quite well,’ he disclosed. ‘They work, when they feel like it, at a small quarry south of Bath, and he also happens to know that they’re there now as they’ve very recently been questioned in connection with another case involving violent assault. He’s dead keen, said he’d handle it himself and is on his way there – pronto.’

  ‘With backup?’

  ‘I made a point of asking. No, Lynn’s doing something else and no one else is spare.’ Patrick stuffed the last piece of his sandwich into his mouth and stood up, jerking a thumb in the direction of the exit in lieu of speaking. I quickly wrapped the remains of mine in a napkin, drank the rest of my orange juice and followed him out.

  We would ride shotgun, as invisibly as possible.

  ‘What’s the name of the quarry?’ was my first question when we were under way.<
br />
  ‘Fine Stone Ltd. I already knew a bit about it as it’s one of the last private firms around here, family owned, and produces, as the name suggests, best-quality Bath stone that’s used in restoration work.’

  It became obvious that we were approaching our goal when the road, verges, bare hedges and trees became etiolated with a thin covering of fine white dust. We progressed as though a cloud of smoke was billowing behind us. Then, up a steep slope off to the right, was the entrance.

  ‘Is Chief Inspector Carrick here yet?’ Patrick asked the man on the gate, having shown him his warrant card.

  ‘He is, but we don’t allow anyone unauthorized in the workings while we’re operational, you understand, so we’ve put out a call for the men he wants to see,’ said the security guard. ‘You can park by the office.’

  Patrick lowered his voice. ‘Look, I don’t want him to know we’re here. Can we leave the car on that rough ground over there and walk in?’

  The man thought about it. ‘I suppose so,’ he said at last.

  ‘Is there any way we can reach the office without him seeing us?’

  ‘You spying on him or something?’

  ‘Of course not. We’re both in training for anti-terrorist work and it’s part of an exercise.’

  We were subjected to a searching gaze. ‘OK, if you go in the gate and keep close to the left-hand side of the road you’ll be out of sight from the windows but if he’s hanging around outside I can’t help you. When you get closer you’ll have to risk it. But stay on the road. On no account take any of the smaller access routes to the quarry. They’re strictly off-limits to you. Understand?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Patrick said. ‘Thanks.’

  We were issued with hard hats, signed a visitors’ book and were finally allowed through.

  ‘Kind of him to tell us about the other access routes,’ Patrick said. ‘Most helpful.’

  ‘But they probably won’t go anywhere near the office,’ I pointed out. ‘Just lead to some Godforsaken hole in the ground.’

  After walking about fifty yards along the road, which penetrated thick woodland, we could see one corner of what looked like a Portakabin, presumably the office in question. We proceeded in single file and after travelling the same distance again with more of the portable building coming into view came to a track that led off to the left. Patrick threw a glance over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching us and hurried down it for a short distance, stopping just before the path curved sharply round to the left.

  ‘It’s bearing off in the wrong direction,’ I said.

  ‘I know. We’ll go through the trees. I just want to observe, that’s all.’

  It was very difficult to progress silently as the ground was thick with dead twigs and leaves. We went extremely slowly, placing each foot with care. Then, after a while – accidentally or not the navigation had been spot-on – two dark rectangles loomed ahead of us. We headed towards the right hand one after the sound of a toilet being flushed emanated from the other. Patrick came to a halt.

  Voices.

  We crept closer until we were right beneath a row of three ventilator grilles in the rear wall, the branches of the trees over and around everything.

  ‘I’m sorry about the delay but they won’t be long now, Chief Inspector,’ a woman said. ‘Won’t you take a seat for a moment?’

  ‘No, thanks, I spend far too much time sitting at my desk or behind the wheel of a car,’ Carrick’s mannered Scottish voice replied.

  I could imagine him standing, perhaps in the doorway or looking out of one of the windows, one hand in a trouser pocket jingling the loose change, a habit when he was impatient. One could hear the soft footfalls as he then paced up and down.

  At least another five minutes went by. Carrick was offered, and refused, coffee, the phone rang several times and a lorry arrived to collect stone, covering everything in another layer of dust. I noticed that Patrick’s hair and eyebrows were hoary with it. Then what sounded like a dumper truck chugged up and stopped close by. Moments later the Portakabin moved a little as more people entered.

  ‘Shall we talk outside?’ Carrick said. In all probability the lorry driver was still within, dealing with paperwork.

  Patrick’s lips moved as he silently swore, the voices going from hearing range, out into the open air, and gestured to me to reverse slightly so that he could squeeze past and edge, as far as he could, down the three-feet-wide gap between the cabins. This had sheets of boarding of some kind stored there and gas bottles, empty, I guessed, but at least we were still mostly hidden from view by it all.

  Carrick’s voice was carried on the light breeze blowing towards us through the gap.

  ‘I understand you’re responsible for the plant here,’ he said.

  There was an inaudible reply.

  ‘Did that include last weekend?’

  Another mumbled response.

  ‘Where were the pair of you last Sunday night and early Monday morning?’

  ‘In bed,’ someone growled.

  ‘You’ll have to do better than that. Who’s responsible for security here at weekends? Who has the keys?’

  ‘Danny.’

  ‘Always?’

  ‘When he’s not on holiday.’

  ‘Was he away last weekend?’

  Silence.

  ‘I’m trying to trace someone who used a digger last weekend for illegal purposes. How many JCBs do you have here?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Are they in this vicinity?’

  Another silence.

  ‘We can carry on with this down at the nick if you like,’ Carrick said silkily. ‘I’m talking about serious criminal damage.’

  ‘We haven’t done nothing!’ a man roared.

  ‘Show me the JCBs.’

  Then there was only the sound of the distant hum of machinery.

  ‘They’ve moved off,’ Patrick whispered, backing out of the small space. ‘We must follow now, even if Carrick sees us.’

  Still trying not to make too much noise we made our way towards the front of the cabin and Patrick, who was in front, paused to peer around the final corner. He then shot off and must have gone inside for I heard him say in a high-pitched cockney accent, ‘Oppos of the guv out there, miss. Got a coupla sets of ovies we could borrow so as not to get our clobber mucked up?’ And reappeared, a matter of seconds later, with some orange-coloured workmen’s overalls. We scrambled into them and set off after the three figures already in the distance, walking in a kind of canyon cut in one side of a hill. Piles of stone were everywhere, spoil probably, but such was the huge scale of the place there was plenty of room for large vehicles to pass easily between them.

  ‘There’s one JCB parked in that gully over there,’ Patrick said, quickening his pace. ‘I’m worried that the pair of them will take him to a nice private place, thump him and then do a runner.’

  ‘It would be an incredibly stupid thing to do.’

  ‘These men are bound to be incredibly stupid and they’ll be picked up in no time at all as they’ll then probably head for home and switch on the telly. Carrick’s the one I’m concerned about.’

  The trio, who were heading away from where all the noise of activity seemed to be coming, disappeared from sight behind a rock pile as the canyon curved slightly and we jogged to catch up. When we saw them again they were much closer. Patrick scooped up a piece of equipment lying on the ground, it looked like part of a large drill, and slung it across one shoulder, I assumed to help disguise us. We pulled the safety helmets further down over our eyes to partly cover our faces and carried on.

  Then the group stopped and one orange-clad figure pointed over to the right towards something we could not see. Both men with Carrick were big and burly, with awesome beer-bellies. They went in the direction indicated and as we resumed walking saw they were going into a dark cave-like entrance in the rock.

  We ran, on tiptoe.

  Near the entrance we stopped, Patrick breathing hard
under his heavy load, and listened. Carrick was talking and he did not sound particularly pleased.

  ‘I have an idea you’ve led me here on a wild-goose chase,’ he said. ‘No, you stay right where you are, the pair of you. Now listen!’

  There was the sound of a scuffle.

  Patrick marched in but I stayed where I was.

  ‘Where’s this go?’ I heard him ask loudly, still with a cockney accent, the tone of his voice possessing tooth-jangling, chainsaw qualities.

  ‘What?’ someone bawled.

  ‘This effin’ thing.’

  ‘Where did you get it from?’

  ‘Back there.’

  ‘It’s bust!’

  ‘I know it’s effin’ bust.’ There followed a pithy description of the other’s lack of intelligence, family history, sexual orientation, that kind of thing, at which point I decided that a little reinforcement might help things along a bit and walked in.

  I had little time to assimilate my surroundings, only that it was an endless-looking cave, for although the move had the desired effect it caused the two suspects to endeavour to remove themselves from the scene and, side by side, they ran straight at us.

  There was a loud ‘Ooooff!’ in unison as the metal drill thingy hit the pair midships, Patrick having thrown it, and they went over backwards in a cloud of dust and obscenities. Both climbed to their feet and showed no sign of surrender.

  ‘You’re both under arrest!’ Carrick bellowed.

  The man nearest to Patrick took a swipe at him with a fist like a ham joint. Patrick ducked, side-stepped smartly and caught him with a real oblivion-maker to the side of the jaw. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the other man running out through the entrance, Carrick after him. Reckoning that my husband needed no support right now I set off in pursuit.

  The big man could move amazingly quickly for his size. I saw it all: he was run down as though he was standing still and I found myself coming to a halt, beating my fists together in my agitation at the sight of Carrick launching himself in a tackle that had the pair of them crashing to the ground. He was up first and whether it was something that the other man said as he got to his feet or any move he suddenly made against the DCI I could not tell as Carrick was standing nearest to me, blocking my view, but suddenly his quarry was flat on his back, definitely not moving.