‘I know I do not look it. I reached eighty in February. I have aged well, Mr Pluke, and I owe that to a careful lifestyle of hard work in the open air. But you will note there are no animals or livestock on the farm, not any more. I sold them all after the death of my wife, to raise capital which I have invested to provide me with an income. I like to be kept busy, so I occupy myself by hiring my wide range of agricultural machinery to those who need it, when they want it – farmers just beginning their careers cannot afford to pay thousands of pounds for something like a combine harvester which they use only for a few days each harvest time. So I hire my machinery to them – everything from ploughs to combines by way of seed drills and mowers, tractors and forage harvesters, hence the rather gaudy advertising. And I lease my land to those who wish to make use of it, either for crops, silage or livestock grazing. I do work, Mr Pluke, just sufficient to keep me agile, but no longer do I tire myself out with hard manual labour. That’s a young man’s game.’
‘And I do know that, in addition to what you have told me, you are a generous benefactor to many local causes.’
‘I like to share my good fortune, Mr Pluke. I have no family to inherit my wealth, and I like others to benefit from it. It is my way of giving something back to society.’
‘A very nice thought, Mr Burholme. Now, you store some of your machinery and bales in the old quarry?’
‘I do indeed, but not all my machinery is kept in the open air. Most of it is under cover, in the buildings which you can see around this complex. You are welcome to have a look at anything you wish. The bales in the quarry are not mine, by the way – I allow a neighbouring farmer to leave them there. I have ample room and besides, they do create a useful shelter for small animals and also provide a solid wind barrier.’
‘My officers will have to search your premises, Mr Burholme, in case the person responsible has concealed any evidence around the farm. I cannot divulge the precise cause of death, except to say there are indications of violence upon the victim. That means we need to find the weapon which caused her death, and the implement which was used to dig the grave.’
‘Of course, Mr Pluke. I shall help in any way I can. This is a dreadful thing to happen, and it is made worse for me because it is on my land.’
‘I do understand, and thank you,’ said Pluke. ‘Now, the victim is a young woman, blonde hair and very attractive in life, aged about thirty. We should have a photograph before the day is out, but can you recall any such visitor here? A customer perhaps? The wife or girlfriend of a customer maybe? Or someone merely passing through?’
Burholme creased his brow in thought a while, and then he shrugged his shoulders. ‘Lots of people come here on business. Many of them are either ladies or accompanied by ladies, but I cannot identify any of them from such a brief description. I’d like to see a photo, if that can be arranged?’
‘We will do that,’ promised Pluke. ‘Now, have you had any visitors out of normal hours? I am thinking of the quarry in particular. I believe the only way into the quarry by motor vehicle is through this farm?’
‘When I bought the quarry, many years ago, I closed its entrance from Barughdale lane, for security reasons. Then I made a new entrance across my own land. One reason was to deter uninvited visitors from trespassing in the quarry – courting couples, campers, caravanners, people lighting fires and using the place as a toilet or to dump their household litter. I have no objection to bona fide campers using my quarry but so many selfish people would come to dump old chairs, settees, mattresses, oil drums and worse. Anyway, the point is that lots of people made illegal or nuisance use of the quarry but once I bought it, I was determined to stop that kind of low person. I was bound by law to keep the public footpath open, however, although my action did reduce the numbers using the quarry illicitly. Now, it is only possible to enter it with a motor vehicle by coming through my main gate and then crossing my land. It’s much more private now, although passing hikers still head for it, for picnics and overnight camping in tents, that sort of thing. I don’t mind that provided they leave the place clean and tidy and do not cause damage. I don’t always hear them, sometimes I do not know they are there – it’s only when they’ve gone that I find evidence of their presence, bonfires and, sadly, litter, used condoms, and picnic waste like beer cans and plastic wrappers. The route into the quarry does not come near my house, however. I made sure the road avoided my buildings!’ He grinned.
‘So anyone taking a vehicle into the quarry must cross your land and must enter by the main gate. Did you hear or see anyone visiting the quarry over the weekend, or at any time recently, without your permission?’
‘I don’t hear everything, but yes, there was a motor vehicle on Saturday night,’ said Burholme. ‘Late, it would be. Eleven o’clock or thereabouts. I heard its engine once or twice, moving about, but it was impossible to say whether it was on the road outside my premises, or in the quarry. I peeped out of my bedroom window but saw nothing, no lights or movement. I have no idea whether it stayed a while or left immediately. I was not particularly concerned, such noises are not unusual here. In spite of my efforts to isolate the quarry, I do get courting couples using it. Saturday nights especially. I do know that some married men have brought their mistresses here… I disturbed one only last Easter.’
‘Who was it?’ asked Pluke. ‘The dead woman might be someone’s mistress.’
‘I have no idea. When I disturbed him, he drove off saying his wife must never find out… It was a dark blue car, a large one, but I did not note any other particulars. And I believe his woman was dark-haired.’
‘We shall make enquiries of our night patrolling constables,’ smiled Pluke. ‘It is amazing how much information they gather about traffic movements during their duties. Now, did you visit the quarry this morning?’
‘No, I did not. I do not visit it every day – I must admit I had forgotten about the vehicle I heard on Saturday.’
‘And the rest of Saturday and Sunday, Mr Burholme? Were you here?’
‘I left home fairly early on Saturday morning, half-past ten or thereabouts. I went to a demonstration of a new combine, in Harrogate. At the Great Yorkshire Showground, an invitation event. I am thinking about buying one or two of the newer models and it is important that I examine them first. I remained there all day, then had a meal with some colleagues in the early evening and returned here around nine o’clock. Sunday, I was here all day, doing maintenance most of the time, and this morning, I attended your shoggling ceremony. Like you, Mr Pluke, I do like to keep old customs alive – Christianity hijacked a lot of them, you know, from the pagans
‘But not this one, Mr Burholme, not Shoggling the May. Now, I must inform you that we shall want to check your movements over the relevant period.’
‘I understand. I know I am under suspicion, Mr Pluke. But I have no fears. Check all you want, search my entire premises. I have a clear conscience and you must do your duty.’
‘Thank you for being so co-operative, Mr Burholme. Now, do you know the names of anyone who might come to the quarry at night?’
Burholme smiled. ‘By night, it’s usually courting couples, Mr Pluke, lads and lasses who know their way around the countryside. Campers sometimes use it, hikers carrying their own tents. Picnickers popping in during the daylight hours. But I can’t give you names, I’m afraid.’
‘You are not afraid of thieves, either here or in the quarry?’
‘No. No one could remove any of my machines without me being aware of it. Nor have I suffered from vandals – we’re too far from what some regard as civilisation for vandals to operate.’
‘And the bales lining the edge of the quarry? Who do they belong to?’
‘Brian Preston, my neighbour at Hollins Farm.’
‘Might he pay a late night supervisory visit to the quarry, do you think?’
Burholme shrugged. ‘It’s highly unlikely, Mr Pluke. He has no cause to visit the place unless he wants to check his p
roperty. No one’s going to steal any of those huge rolls, not without the necessary lifting gear. It’s hardly likely he would visit the quarry late at night to check anything. But it’s not impossible, of course.’
‘I shall have to interview him,’ noted Pluke, pleased to receive the name of another suspect. ‘And I expect you have regular customers for your hire business?’
‘Yes, of course. You’ll want a list of them? Preston’s one of them, he’s got one of my forage harvesters, he took it only a couple of days ago. Early on Saturday morning, actually, before I went off to Harrogate.’
‘I would like a full list, Mr Burholme. They and their contacts are precisely the sort of people who might make use of your old quarry, for lawful or unlawful purposes.’
‘I’ll get the list now,’ offered Burholme.
Chapter Four
After thanking Eric Burholme for his list of customers, Pluke asked for a guided tour of his outbuildings. These proved to house a bewildering variety of heavy and extremely intricate equipment whose functions were beyond the imagination of Pluke. During the tour, Burholme told the officers that many of the machines were currently not in use. The combines, for example, were used only in the autumn for harvesting grain; when idle, they were serviced and then stored in readiness for the following season. Burholme hired the necessary expertise for this, although some of the work was done on these premises for there was adequate room and facilities to permit that. Nevertheless Burholme said he could, and frequently did, personally undertake some of the minor repairs and basic servicing tasks. He added that he enjoyed working with metal and undertaking light engineering tasks.
‘At this time of year,’ Burholme went on, ‘the farmers are producing silage and so they need our forage harvesters. We have six, and they are all out with customers at the moment. Soon, they will not be required – haymaking is the next seasonal activity, only a week or two away, when our hydraulic mowers will be in demand.’
‘I note none of your outbuildings is locked?’ said Wayne Wain.
‘There is no need; who can steal these monsters without me knowing?’
‘But if you are away, people could wander in and out of the buildings…’ began Pluke.
‘To hide a murder weapon or steal a spade to dig a grave?’ countered Burholme.
‘Precisely,’ nodded Pluke.
‘Quite clearly, I cannot deny that,’ admitted Burholme. ‘I never consider my machinery at risk from either thieves or vandals, not at this remote place, but if I am honest, I cannot say no one has been here to steal tools or hide things. It is possible someone could enter my buildings without my knowledge.’
‘I have to consider that likelihood,’ said Pluke. ‘My officers will have to make a detailed search of all your buildings, Mr Burholme, but meanwhile perhaps you could check your tools to see whether anything is missing? Particularly something like a spade, shovel or pick-axe. And if you find something has been added to your complement of tools without your knowledge, perhaps you’d alert us? Don’t touch it, though, leave it for my men to deal with.’
‘I will check all my gardening tools and other implements at the earliest opportunity, Mr Pluke.’
Then I think we can leave now. Thank you for your cooperation,’ said Pluke. ‘My officers will come later for a formal written statement. We shall also want to confirm your movements on Saturday, Sunday and on Monday prior to the shoggling ceremony.’
‘I’ll be here,’ promised Burholme.
As they left, the tall slender figure of the snow-haired Eric Burholme disappeared indoors.
Pluke and Wain returned to the quarry where the Task Force had arrived; the Scenes of Crime officers also awaited Pluke’s orders. He addressed them all by clambering on top of a convenient bale and speaking from the elevation it provided. After outlining the circumstances of the discovery, he ordered the Scenes of Crime officers to undertake a meticulous search of the quarry and its array of machinery, highlighting the need to find the murder weapon and the grave-digging tool or tools. He reminded them that the girl’s injuries might have been caused by a bolt-shaped, pointed component of an agricultural machine which, if found, might bear incriminating evidence – blood or minute particles of skin, for example. The likelihood of some other weapon being used had also to be considered. Working in conjunction with the Scenes of Crime team, the Task Force had to undertake the necessary fingertip search of the quarry and its surrounds. When that was complete, both teams should meticulously examine the machinery within the farm buildings, and the buildings themselves, either for the instrument which had caused her death, or for a spade, shovel, pick-axe or other gravedigging tool. Those implements did exist, consequently they must be somewhere – and that being so, they could be traced. The footpath must be searched too, along with the surrounding vegetation, for any items of thrown-away evidence, while the barbed wire on top of the roadside fence near the stile must be examined for fibres and other possible evidence.
Pluke told his officers that the press would be informed of the death, but in the event of any journalists speaking to officers other than Pluke or Wayne Wain, then they must be told the girl had died from a head injury. The precise nature of that injury must not be given to anyone not involved with the investigation.
‘And now,’ said Pluke, ‘I shall radio the control room at Crickledale to give a brief situation report for onward transmission to interested parties such as the Chief Constable and Headquarters CID, and to formally request the establishment of an incident room. Then Detective Sergeant Wayne Wain and myself will interview our first witness – a local farmer called Brian Preston – and this evening at 6 p.m. I shall arrange the first formal briefing. That will be in the incident room. Our priority is to get the deceased identified as soon as possible and for that, Sergeant Tabler, I shall require you to take the fingerprints of the deceased and a photograph which is decent enough to be viewed by members of the public.’
‘No problem, sir, I’ll do that when the post-mortem’s finished. So can I treat this as murder?’ asked Detective Sergeant Tabler, the officer in charge of the Scenes of Crime officers, known as SOCO.
‘I am treating the case as possible murder at this stage,’ countered Pluke. ‘I am awaiting the pathologist’s report. Meanwhile, we are conducting a murder-type investigation.’
‘But with all due respect, sir, if the woman is suffering from a head injury which might have been caused by something from an agricultural implement, then she might have sustained it accidentally. She might have got caught in some moving machinery or something might have flown off at high velocity and struck her.’
‘I am aware of that…’ began Pluke.
‘Balers have very powerful flywheels, remember, and such occurrences are not uncommon in this part of the world. Agricultural accidents are a sad feature of country life during the summer months.’
‘Indeed they are,’ agreed Pluke.
‘I have dealt with many such accidents,’ continued Sergeant Tabler. ‘Some were caused in the most unbelievable manner… bizarre really… but deadly.’
‘Precisely, Detective Sergeant Tabler, I have that very point under active consideration,’ agreed Pluke. ‘But if the death was the result of an accident, why arrange a secret burial? And why dispose of the object which caused the death? And why not summon medical help? In the absence of any substantial answers to those questions, I must consider murder to be a possibility until the contrary is proved. A possibility, but no more. You and your colleagues must consider this a murder-type investigation for the time being – no more and no less.’
‘Point taken, sir,’ acknowledged Tabler. ‘I just need some authority for my involvement and my teams’ expenses.’
‘Once we get a name for her, sergeant, I feel sure her mode of life and her personality will produce some sensible answers, but in the meantime I want a full investigation. So as your teams undertake their work at the scene, Detective Sergeant Wain and myself will visit a Mr Brian Prest
on at Hollins Farm. He owns those rounded bales which line the edge of the quarry. From there, I shall return straight to my office, sergeant; if your officers find something of interest, report to me as soon as practicable.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Detective Sergeant Tabler.
*
As Pluke and Wain drew to a halt in the muddy yard of Hollins Farm, Pluke spotted the massive horse trough which appeared to be built into the base of the heather-clad hillside towering behind the buildings. The trough was full of fresh water and the inlet was flowing generously, the trough spilling its overflow into a drain beneath.
‘Look at that, Wayne!’ he enthused. ‘What a monster… a true giant among troughs!’
As they parked the car, Pluke rushed out with his coat flaps open and his hat on the back of his head, having had it knocked there during his exit from the vehicle. He stood beside the trough, looking up the hillside where another trough had been placed… it was also large in comparison with most and it was also brimming with water which overflowed into a drain. And there was another above that… a triple-decker!
Then they heard a voice behind them.
‘Now then, gentlemen, what can I do for you? Interested in our water system, are you?’ The new arrival peered quizzically at Pluke’s overcoat, hat and bow tie.
‘I am indeed,’ stated Pluke with some conviction. ‘Might I ask if that upper trough services the one beneath, and if that in turn services this lower one?’
‘Aye, they do. We get a lot of folks coming to inspect our water supply, university types usually. They reckon it’s quite unusual. Now, the spring which serves ‘em all also supplies the house, it gives us all the water we need, for baths, kitchen, washing clothes, the lot. Supplies the humans and all the animals and poultry. It always has done, down the years. What’s left over from the house comes into yon top trough up on the bank side, and it overflows into t’next one which overflows to fill this ‘un in the yard and they reckon the overflow from this, near where your foot is, runs underground to service the farm in the dale below us… and the spring which supplies ‘em all never dries up. Never. That’s what baffles folks. Nobody can fathom where all that water comes from. There must be some sort of reservoir underground, a mighty big ‘un if you ask me.’
Superstitious Death Page 5
