by Peter Helton
‘Second breakfast. I’ve been up for hours. You want to borrow the Landy then.’
I hid my surprise behind a gulp of coffee. ‘Yes, please.’
‘No problem.’ She dug out the keys from her jeans pocket and put them on the table, halfway between us; Annis’s most treasured possession – apart from her brushes, perhaps – and not a bribe in sight. As I tried to casually palm the keys she covered my hand with hers. She speared a mushroom and offered it up to my mouth. I closed my lips around the fragrant fungus, chewed and swallowed. She gave me a smile that barely registered before it vanished again, released my hand and returned to her breakfast. ‘Okay, you can go now.’
I climbed into the Landy’s cab and fiddled with the ignition. I wasn’t sure about the moon phase but hoped that the old diesel was oblivious to the dank weather. It was grey and damp but there was no fog this morning and the radio had promised dramatic improvements for later in the day. I didn’t share their optimism. The engine caught and the ancient contraption vibrated into life, belching a black cloud of pollution out the back. I would have another go at Grumpy Hollow, hoping somehow to get ahead of Avon and Somerset. They had the annoying habit of jumping out at me from unusual places and right now that was the last thing I needed.
As I pulled away I caught a glimpse of movement behind the hall window and raised a hand in salute. I felt guilty about my reaction last night when I found Tim in Annis’s bed and yet more guilt for being so inarticulate about loving the woman. I felt guilty for having allowed Jill’s son to be used as a lever to make me do someone’s dirty work for him. In fact my Accumulated Guilt Quotient was so high that smoking on an empty stomach hardly registered, though I was acutely aware of the stupidity of it while I fought to light a cigarette single-handedly with my temperamental lighter whilst coughing all the way up the track to the lane. Dark thoughts about how every lungful ate into my life expectancy helped to take my mind off things until I got to Lam Valley. I rattled past Chickenshit Farm, where I hoped Jack Fryer had managed some sleep, not to mention washing up, and after a couple of wrong turns found the track that led steeply down to the ford across the stream and on to Grumpy Hollow. I passed the tree where yesterday I had left the bike and ground on slowly through the mud.
In the churned-up area in front of the missing gate to the little herb farm I abandoned the Landy and walked from there. A length of rope had been strung from gatepost to gatepost, surely a purely psychological measure to reinforce the warnings on the signs to keep out. I ducked under it and walked on. Here the mists still lingered and being mindful of yesterday’s welcome I advanced cautiously. There were plenty of hiding places around here. The place was shambolic in a curiously attractive way. It had an air that reminded me of the charm of picturesque neglect the outbuildings at Mill House had acquired, though there was no sign of idleness here, quite the opposite; I’d never seen a place more densely worked and cultivated. Every corner appeared to be crammed with plants, many sheltered from the weather by bits of glass and grimy sheets of builders’ polythene. There appeared to be a couple of figures watching me from the middle of a small field of bright green foliage to my left. I waved and called hello. The figures didn’t move or answer and as I got closer I realized I’d been trying to converse with scarecrows. Very realistic ones. I was wondering if they were meant to scare more than just the birds. As I carefully advanced downhill past a zinc trough full of scummy green water, plants growing in rows of beds bordered with flimsy wooden boards, barrels, muck heaps and all kinds of junk, the structures at the centre of all this took on more definite shapes. An ancient-looking Volvo estate – it was beige, and when did they stop making cars that colour? – stood with its nose pointing uphill. Near a couple of pollarded willows sat an old-fashioned hump-backed caravan. Five feet away and at right angles to that stood a pale blue and weathered old shepherd’s hut, its wheels disappearing into the muddy grass. Connecting the two and shielding the space in between from the worst of the weather hung a home-made porch consisting of bits of wood, canvas and tarpaulin. Nests of bottles, presumably empty, had accrued beside the hut; wine bottles, beer bottles, water bottles, gas bottles. Behind the caravan stood a greenhouse, botched together from sash windows and, by the look of it, old shower cubicles, and beyond that stretched the grey caterpillar of a polytunnel far into the plantation. A couple of sheds, knocked together from old pallets and tar-paper, completed the picture. Thin wisps of grey smoke escaped from the lum-hatted stove pipe protruding at a drunken angle from the roof of the hut. Apart from the smell of wetness, of mud and dank vegetation, there was the undeniable aroma of country cooking in the air. My stomach rumbled loudly. A dim light showed in the little window of the shepherd’s hut. I splashed towards it, intending to knock on the side.
‘Hold it right there.’
I held it right there. It was a commanding female voice and it came from behind me. I turned round. She was pointing a rifle at me from the corner of the caravan. It had to be the Stone woman but it was me who felt petrified.
‘Don’t point that thing at me, there’s no need for that,’ I said in my friendliest I’m-just-a-harmless-detective voice. ‘You must be,’ I opted for neutral ground, ‘Ms Stone.’
‘Right first time. Now up the hill and back where you came from. I’ve had enough of people creeping round my place.’ She motioned with the rifle. ‘Go on.’
By now I’d had time to take a closer look. She was covered in several layers of the kind of washed-out olive drab and used-to-be-blue kind of stuff people working in the country always seemed to wear but her feet were trendily clad in pink wellies. Ms Stone tried hard to sound and look fierce, squinting along the barrel of her gun and lowering her voice, but that couldn’t disguise the fact that even in all this dripping murk she looked somehow . . . sunny. Cheerful. There was sandy beach-blonde hair escaping from her multicoloured knitted hat, the unsquinting eye was a clear sea blue and her tanned face was strikingly devoid of hairy warts and other witchy accessories.
‘I’m harmless, honestly. And that’s an air rifle you’re pointing at me. It’s hardly a deadly weapon.’
‘At sixteen pounds per square inch it would certainly ruin your day if I pulled the trigger, I can promise you that much.’ But she lowered it nevertheless and pointed it at my mud-caked boots instead. ‘Start walking then.’
‘I just want to talk. I’m a private investigator.’
‘Don’t care.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘There’s enough signs up there telling you people to keep out but you just keep coming.’
‘It’s true, I did see the signs and ignored them but then there wasn’t a bell to ring or anything,’ I complained. ‘So if one doesn’t walk past the signs how does one get to see you?’
‘One gets invited. You one didn’t invite. So get lost, will you?’ A note of tiredness had crept into her voice. ‘I’ve had enough visitors to last me the rest of the year. Perhaps longer.’
‘The police?’
‘Yes, them too, though they were a joy compared with some of my other callers.’
I took out my packet of cigarettes, shook one out and lit it, mainly to buy some time. Her eyes followed my every move, as though mesmerized. I offered her one. She closed the fifteen feet of space between us and yanked a cigarette out of the packet. She had it lit so fast with her own lighter, produced from a trouser pocket, there could be no doubt that I was watching a true addict suffering from extreme nicotine deprivation.
She sucked greedily at her cigarette, the gun comfortably cradled in the crook of her arm, then let the smoke out slowly. ‘I’m trying to give up. Why aren’t you walking yet?’ But her shoulders slumped in relaxation as she took another puff and exhaled with a sigh of contentment.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sabotage your efforts to give up smoking. I know how difficult it is.’
‘Ah, bollocks, I just can’t really afford to buy any, that’s all. And tobacco is the one thing I don’t grow down here, far too m
uch hassle.’
‘What is it you are growing down here? Herbs, someone said.’
‘Herbs mainly, but I try and grow most of my own food as well.’
‘And you live here?’ I failed to keep the astonishment out of my voice.
‘Yeah, anything wrong with that?’
‘No, not at all, it’s very . . .’ I was looking for a word that wouldn’t wake up her trigger finger. ‘. . . romantic,’ I said.
‘Romantic, my arse. Not when half your crop’s keeling over from botrytis in this damn weather, blight has got your spuds, the rabbits have had your carrots, the badgers your sweetcorn and the pigeons the rest.’
The aroma of cooking intensified in the air and I suddenly identified the smell. I nodded towards the shepherd’s hut. ‘I think I can smell pigeon now.’
‘Oh, shit.’ She rushed past me, up the three steps and through the door into the hut. ‘If it’s ruined then it’ll be your bloody fault,’ she cried.
I followed her. The inside of the hut, which was no more than six by twelve feet, was a cosy affair, lit by a couple of low voltage lamps. On the left under the window were a table and chair, both covered in books. There was a small leather armchair in one corner and the squat wood-burning stove in the other. She had taken the casserole off the stove with a pair of gardening gloves and put it on the floor, where she was examining it, cigarette dangling from her lips. She grabbed hold of a wooden spoon.
‘If it’s stuck to the bottom it’s best to decant it into a fresh pot without stirring it,’ I warned.
She gave me an exasperated look, then pushed past me out of the door, leaving her gun leaning against the wall. A moment later she returned carrying a fire-blackened cast-iron casserole dish with an ancient-looking dog following at her heels. I shrank against the wall but the tired mongrel only sniffed perfunctorily in my direction, then flopped down near the stove. ‘Don’t mind Taxi, he’s too tired to bite.’ The Stone woman tumbled deep red sauce and pigeons into the clean casserole dish. ‘It’s all right, it was only just catching at the bottom.’ She took a swig from an open bottle of red, added a good slug to the dish and stirred it in. With the casserole returned to the stove top she let herself fall into the battered red armchair. ‘You can cook, huh? Dropped in to give me a cooking lesson, that it? Or perhaps you just have a lot of experience burning stuff? Who are you anyway? You look slightly less menacing without your goggles. That was you yesterday, wasn’t it? Persistent, aren’t you? And you’re a private investigator?’
‘Do you always ask half a dozen questions in one breath? Yes, no, yes and yes, it was and I am. I think that covers it. My name’s Chris Honeysett. So, was it you who tried to scare me off with airborne top-fruit?’
‘Tried to? Worked pretty well, I thought. I’m Gemma Stone. Most people call me Gem.’
‘Gem Stone, I get it.’
‘Very astute, only I’m not the precious type. So what do you want from me? You’re also less muddy today. Did you crawl here yesterday?’
‘I came by bike yesterday but the engine conked out at the ford.’
‘So that’s what I heard. I wondered why the engine sound didn’t come any nearer. Made me suspicious. People with legitimate business know to sound their horn at the gate and wait.’
‘Ex-gate.’ I felt it was only fair to point this out. ‘I was unsure of the etiquette. And at the time quite hornless, I assure you. My normal conveyance, by the way, is a black Citroën DS21.’
Her mouth formed a silent ‘oh’ and she nodded sagely. ‘So that was yours, was it?’
‘Did you see it?’
She pointed for me to sit on the wooden chair. ‘Just chuck the books on the table.’
I did. All of them were about aspects of horticulture and herbalism.
‘No, didn’t see it but the police told me about it. I’m afraid I couldn’t help them either. I haven’t been up that way for ages, too busy down here. They said there was a dead bloke in the back. You didn’t have anything to do with that then, presumably.’
‘Nothing at all. My car was stolen from a car park in Larkhall and found in that field with a dead body in the back.’
The dog closed his eyes and sighed. ‘And what exactly made you come to me with this story?’
The answer to that was easy. Cairn had overheard two men talking about a guy called Albert and ‘the old witch’, though here in the light I guessed Gemma was still comfortably in her thirties. ‘For a while the police thought I had killed the guy. Perhaps they still do. Thought I might do a bit of investigating myself. I’m asking everybody.’
‘The police already asked me. Sorry, no idea.’
‘And you’re not missing anyone, obviously.’
Her eyes were resting on a gardening calendar pinned to the wall by the table. ‘No, can’t say I do. It’s a one woman show, this,’ she said but a note of doubt had crept into her voice.
‘I think the dead man’s name was Albert Something.’
‘Oh? The police didn’t mention that.’ She frowned, then smiled brightly and rose. ‘Sorry, can’t help,’ she said with determination. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got things to do.’
‘Oh, all right.’ I got up and went outside into the brightening afternoon. Gaps had appeared in the cloud and the mists were burning away fast. ‘So what kind of herbs are you growing? Poisonous ones? I saw the sign.’
‘Nah, that’s just to scare off the kids. Not that it’s working too well. Somehow the place is a magnet for bored children, nutters, vandals and prowlers. And of course private detectives, the police, drunk neighbours and all the other wildlife Somerset has to offer. I’m thinking of getting a noisier gun. Yeah, I grow all kinds of herbs, medicinal as well as culinary,’ she explained. She was walking me back to the broken gate to make sure I really left.
‘And you’re making a living that way?’
‘I’m still here, aren’t I?’ she said sharply. I guessed this wasn’t a favourite topic.
Just then I noticed that now there appeared to be only one scarecrow standing guard. I pointed at it. ‘Ehm . . .’
‘Yes, I can stand very still if need be. You learn that when you’re hunting for pigeons with an air gun.’
At the gate I offered her a cigarette as a parting gift. She took two, gave me a lopsided grin that died on her face even before she had turned round, then trotted back towards her muddy camp.
The Land Rover started straight away as though eager to get out of the place. As I negotiated the muddy track and the even muddier ford I couldn’t help thinking that Gem had looked just a little worried ever since I mentioned the name Albert, though she had ploughed on bravely enough through the rest of our conversation. If she really was as worried as I thought then it was only a matter of time until she made some kind of move – if only to find some more cigarettes to calm herself down. In which case it was a private detective’s duty to wait round the corner and follow her. I turned left along the lane, since I presumed she’d go right towards the nearest spot of civilization, found a passing place wide enough to turn the Landy around in and point it the right way, then waited.
And waited. The stuttering engine sound of a microlight plane crossing the valley did nothing to convince me that this was a sport I should rush to get into, though I envied whoever was up there the freedom to buzz across the countryside without having to follow the roads. It was quite pleasant sitting there with the windows open while the sun went in and out of the cloud breaks. But after a while it got tedious, so to pass the time I started worrying about things: about Jill’s son, locked up somewhere, terrified of what might happen to him; about me and Annis; about Tim and Annis; about the dead guy in my car, despite Grimshaw’s assurances; about Thursday’s break-in, despite Tim’s assurances.
I could hear the surge of the Volvo’s old engine long before it gained the track, so had plenty of time to start my own car and wonder how I was going to follow the woman without her spotting me behind her in an empty, if winding, c
ountry lane. When I first caught a glimpse of the Volvo ahead of me my worries disappeared. Not only was the rear window of the estate blind with mud and obscured by who-knows-what junk in the back but half the glass was missing from her only wing mirror. Nevertheless I let her get a couple of bends ahead to be on the safe side. The speed at which she pushed her old banger along confirmed to me that this was one worried woman – or one with one hell of a tobacco craving. As if to confirm the latter she stopped her car on a double yellow line in Larkhall, jumped out and disappeared into a convenience store. Two minutes later she came out with a copy of the Bath Chronicle and two packets of cigarettes and dived back into her car. A moment later a white puff of smoke appeared from the driver window, a black puff of smoke from the car’s exhaust and we were off again. She turned sharp left, crossed a couple of main roads and headed west into the country again. For a while we were more or less following the Kennet and Avon canal then the Volvo slowed and without indicating turned into a narrow tree-lined track between empty fields. As the track curved around into a slight depression crowded with more trees a police constable by the side of the road gave me the first indication that the circus was in town but by then it was far too late. The Volvo had already stopped on the track in front and Gem had got out, looking back at me without apparent surprise. I’d have to work on my shadowing technique. Beyond, a patrol car, a big grey Ford and a technicians’ van were crowded into the small gravelled space in front of a tiny crumbling bungalow. It looked like a post-war prefab that had managed to survive into the twenty-first century by hiding under a clump of trees in the countryside.
The constable put his face to the driver window. ‘Would you mind switching your engine off, sir? And could you tell me what you are doing here, please?’
‘Nothing, really. I think I must have taken a wrong turning, I’ll just back out again, shall I?’
‘I don’t think so, sir.’ He reached in through the open window and snatched the keys so quickly I didn’t get a chance to bite his hand. He pointed invitingly towards the bungalow. If I was where I thought I was then this could spell serious trouble. In my humble opinion Gem, who obviously knew a lot more about the expired gent in my car than she let on, had driven straight to Mr Albert Something’s house to check on his general well-being or more specifically his continued existence which, judging by the assembled police troupe, was now in serious doubt. And since I had vigorously denied all knowledge of the dead man’s identity I might find my own presence here hard to explain away. Gem was walking quickly ahead of me towards the bungalow where a multi-tasking uniformed constable moved across to intercept her while holding on to a cat and talking into her radio at the same time. I followed more warily and couldn’t stifle a groan when Detective Inspector Deeks popped out of the front door like an evil jack-in-the-box. He seemed to react with surprise at seeing Gem and with anger at seeing me. To my own surprise he charged along the few algae-green flagstones in front of the house, straight past Gem and the WPC to confront me.
