by Rebecca Tope
Two men stood beside the ambulance. Den got out of the car quickly and walked up to them. ‘Not one for you, then?’ he queried.
One of the men shook his head. ‘You could say that,’ he confirmed. ‘You’ll be calling out the whole team on this one, I reckon. And after that, you’ll want the undertakers. We’ll be out of your way now.’
Den let them go without further discussion. A woman came out of the door beside the food hopper, clearly waiting for them. ‘Come on, then,’ muttered Den. ‘Let’s see what’s what.’
‘It’s this way,’ she told them, glancing from face to face. She was of above average height, sturdy, wearing a navy blue protective outfit, with large wellington boots. Her hair, a pleasing chestnut colour, was dragged back into a tight knot, and there were splashes of muck across one shoulder. There was a hardness around the eyes and an impression that she seldom smiled. Her accent was barely perceptibly Devon.
‘Are you Deirdre Watson?’ Den asked her. ‘Do you live here?’
‘I’m the milk recorder,’ she said, as if this explained everything. For Den, it mostly did.
‘Recording Day, is it?’ he asked, with a nod. Another agricultural mystery that Lilah had long ago explained to him.
It was dim inside the barn, even with the light on. Den fished in his pocket for a torch as Deirdre pointed out to them the relevant corner, keeping a safe distance, somehow understanding that she ought not to further disturb the scene. Is it him? Den was bursting to ask her. Is it that swine Hillcock? He’d know the answer soon enough.
Eagerly, he played the torch beam across the body, taking in the blood, the huddled stiffness. He could see the disturbed straw, the signs of frenzied movement. The hands were clutched to a wound in the abdominal region, and Den understood that there had been great pain in this dying. The hair was lank, greasy and plentiful. The neck was scrawny, under the grubby scarf. Narrow shoulders, narrower hips. A lean cheek and a long jaw. It was definitely not Gordon Hillcock lying there. ‘Who is he?’ he asked resignedly. ‘And who found him?’
‘Sean O’Farrell,’ the woman told him. ‘The herdsman. He lives in one of the cottages where you turn in off the road. And Gordon found him, when he came to collect the cows.’
He isn’t going to live there any more, thought Den to himself. ‘Has he got any family?’
‘Wife and daughter. We haven’t told them yet. I didn’t like to leave him … and Gordon—’ She threw a quick glance towards the milking parlour, where the motor was still running, providing a constant background throb to the proceedings.
‘Yes – Gordon.’ Den forced the name through his lips. ‘Where’s he, then?’
‘He had to finish the milking. We were on the last five, when we came in here and found Sean. He thought he might as well finish them off.’
‘It’s taken us twenty minutes to get here,’ Den calculated. ‘Surely they’re finished by now?’
‘He’s washing down. There’s forty minutes’ work still to do after the last unit’s off.’ She spoke woodenly, not looking at the figure on the floor. ‘He was upset,’ she added.
‘He shouldn’t be disturbing the scene,’ Den said. ‘Everything should be left just as it was.’
‘We haven’t moved anything in here,’ she told him defensively. ‘The parlour’s got nothing to do with it.’
Den let it go. She was right, anyway: a farm was one of the hardest places on which to conduct any kind of forensic examination. Work tended to go on however much you insisted things be left untouched. This was not his first experience of the destruction of evidence by water or trampling or newly-deposited manure.
Thinking quickly, he tried to sort out what had to be done. The witnesses were supposed to be kept separate, though what good that would do, he couldn’t quite see. If they’d wanted to prepare a story free from contradictions, they’d had plenty of time to do so. He looked at Mike. ‘You go and stay with Mr Hillcock, while I make sure nothing gets disturbed here. Don’t ask him any questions. Just …’
‘I know what to do,’ Mike said, with an air of injury.
Outside, the lights of an approaching car flickered through the open door beside the huge steel bulk milk tank that squatted in its own anteroom between the milking parlour and the outside yard. ‘That’ll be the doc,’ Den said. He faced the woman again; she was waiting for him just inside the door into the milking parlour. ‘Who did you say found him?’
‘Gordon,’ she repeated. ‘He came to collect the cows that were in here. I don’t know where he’s put them, now they’ve been milked,’ she added distractedly.
‘Well, they can’t come back in here,’ Den decreed. ‘There’ll be a Scene of Crime team, forensic people. I don’t think we can call this a natural death, can we?’ He looked at her closely in the weak light, his question rhetorical, but none the less serious for all that.
She seemed to be considering the matter in some depth, her eyes veiled and turned away from him. ‘Perhaps he had some sort of accident?’ she offered.
Den raised an eyebrow. ‘No sign of the cause of his injuries,’ he observed, sweeping the shadowy, straw-covered floor with a sharp eye. ‘It must have been something pretty substantial, by the look of it. Not just a rusty nail.’ The barn was lighter at the further end and he directed his gaze at a second door set into the thick cob wall. Treading a delicate path along the inside walls, he made his way to the door and examined a dark smudge on it, at slightly lower than shoulder height. He had expected to find muck, but his finger found the substance to be slightly sticky, viscous. ‘Blood,’ he concluded, in a mutter. He extracted a thin plastic glove from his pocket and put it on his right hand before opening the door. It was operated by means of a wooden latch that could be worked from either side, thanks to a hole cut in the stout timber. It opened inwards, swinging easily. A gentle push was enough to close it again, the latch sliding over the grooved wooden catch.
Den continued with his hypotheses, silently working them out. The man must have leant against the wall and the blood pumped out onto the door. Arterial bleeding.
He turned his attention to the floor. ‘Left quite a trail,’ he noted. ‘The attack could have happened outside, and then he dragged himself in here before he died. This door would have latched shut again if he’d leant on it.’
‘So—’ prompted Deirdre, with a pointed look towards the yard, where a car door was now slamming.
‘Won’t be long now,’ Den assured her. ‘Would you be kind enough to stay where I can see you for a few more minutes? I’ll have some questions for you when I’ve got the doctor organised.’
Deirdre raised her eyebrows at something in his tone. ‘You know him, do you? Gordon, I mean.’
Den narrowed his eyes at her and cocked his head. ‘What makes you ask that?’
‘I can see it on your face.’
Den sighed. Clever women irritated him. This one was only here by a freak of the calendar. He wasn’t in the mood to play games with her. ‘Yes, I know him,’ he said tersely.
Then he made swift use of his phone, while indicating the scene to the doctor. The persistent throb of the milking machine, at first an irritant, had acquired a faintly sedative influence. Den was surprised at how calm he felt. He was thorough, and stuck as closely as was reasonable to the book of rules. Some officers might have given more thought to the possibility of a vicious killer lurking in the dark outbuildings, ready to attack again, but Den felt no anxieties in that direction. Outside could wait. A team would arrive shortly with powerful lights and protective clothes, to pore as best they could over mucky cowsheds and frozen yards. Meanwhile, there were questions to be asked. He needed details of times, places, movements. Sitting Deirdre Watson down in the untidy office, he rapidly, almost impatiently, ascertained these basics from her. Behind him, in the milking parlour itself, something much more important was waiting for him.
At last, he told Deirdre he had finished with her. Then, sliding the door tightly closed behind him, he wen
t back to join Young Mike – and Gordon Hillcock.
‘Mike!’ he shouted, above the machine noise. ‘Can you go down to the cottages and tell Mrs O’Farrell what’s happened? Stay with her until I get there, okay?’
‘What … now?’
‘Yes, now. Stay with her, but don’t question her. I’ll have a word with Mr Hillcock and wait for the cavalry to show up. I might be a while.’
Gordon Hillcock was standing in the well of his milking parlour, his back to the barn, a powerful pressure hose in his hand. Water gushed from it. At first, Den was bemused that Mike had not tried to stop him – it was theoretically possible that he was washing away vital evidence. But he could see, after a glance at Hillcock’s face, that intervention would not have been easy. While Den watched him, he did not vary the direction of the jet by a millimetre, and by the look of that particular corner of the parlour wall, it had never been so clean before.
‘Mr Hillcock?’ Den called. ‘Could I have a word with you?’
Slowly Gordon turned the nozzle to arrest the flow of water. He looked over his shoulder at Den. His face was streaked with grey marks and his eyes were red and ringed with hollows that made him look monstrous in the harsh light of the parlour. ‘You saw him, then?’ he said gruffly.
Den met his gaze. There was horror there, yes, and a dash of fear. But there was also a stillness that looked like resignation, acceptance of judgement. A slope to the shoulders, a forward tilt to the head that looked to Den like nothing in the world more than guilt. Den felt a wicked inner whoop of triumph. This was even better than if Hillcock had been the victim. For some unknown reason, the man facing him had murdered his herdsman: it was clearly written on his face. And Den was to be the arresting officer. Oh, sweet revenge, a small voice sang inside him.
CHAPTER THREE
‘There’s something going on out there,’ Claudia called as another vehicle drove into the yard, its headlights sending slanting beams across the living room ceiling. ‘Mary! Are you there?’
Mary appeared in the doorway, her hands covered in flour. ‘What?’ she said.
‘The yard’s full of cars and men talking in little groups. Something must have happened. Has Gordon been in?’
Mary went to the window. ‘I don’t think so. Not that he’d bother to come and tell us what’s going on. Gosh, yes, you’re right! Three strange cars, as far as I can see. One of them’s behind the wall; it looks more like a van than a car. How odd. And there’s a man with a torch.’
Claudia was comfortably settled in a deep armchair, with a file of notes balanced on her lap. A cat perched on her shoulder. ‘Maybe you should pop out and see what’s up,’ she suggested to her daughter. ‘I’d go, but I can’t really move.’
‘I can’t go. I’m halfway through making a pie with those Bramleys. If it’s something important, Gordon’ll come in and tell us.’
‘But – three cars,’ Claudia said. ‘It’s not just the vet, is it? It’s cold and dark out there – hardly a moment for a visitation from the Ministry.’
‘It’s probably nothing for us to worry about. If it is, we’ll find out soon enough.’
‘Oh, drat.’ Claudia plucked at the sleeping cat. ‘I can’t just sit here not knowing. It makes us seem so peripheral, like Victorian womenfolk quietly getting on with things in the house while the world falls apart outside. There might be some awful crisis with the cows. Your father would have just shouted for us until we put in an appearance.’
‘He would.’ Mary pulled a face. ‘I still hear him sometimes, expecting us to drop everything and run to his service. Gordon’s a big improvement in that respect.’
‘Well, I’m going to have a look. Sorry, Kitty, this hurts me as much as it does you.’ She plonked the cat onto the floor and laid her paperwork on a stool close to her chair.
‘I hope they don’t want me,’ said Mary. ‘It’s freezing out there and my boots have got a hole in them. And one of those cars looks like the recorder’s, now I come to think of it. Probably it’s just two vets, come from different directions. He’ll have phoned them from the office. Though why he would call two …’
‘Oh, well, I’m up now,’ said Claudia. ‘You get back to your apple pie, and I’ll nip out and see what I can discover.’
Mary shrugged, but didn’t go back to the kitchen. She watched her mother open the front door, kicking a crumpled rug out of the way and pausing to rummage for a pair of boots in the covered porch beyond the door. Curiosity flickered, but no more than that. Farmyard crises were common enough for her not to be worried. Innocent explanations abounded – and if it was something serious, she was in no great hurry to know what it was.
‘Have you anything to say to me?’ Den asked again, as he faced Gordon. ‘There’s a police doctor here now. We’ll let him do his part and then we’ll take statements. I’m afraid the running of your farm is likely to be disrupted. We’ll need to check any possible weapons that might be on the premises.’
‘Weapons?’ Gordon stirred a little, a small frown creasing his brow. ‘What sort of weapons?’
‘Firearms, for example, sir,’ said Den formally.
‘You think he was shot?’
‘It can’t be ruled out, sir,’ Den replied, feeling somehow wrong-footed. Gordon said nothing more, but merely shook his head dumbly and began slowly coiling the thick rubber hose onto a metal hook beside him. The milk recorder’s pots were still spread over the rickety wooden table in one corner of the milking parlour. ‘Mr Hillcock,’ Den said loudly. ‘Will you come with me, please?’
Den tried to muster his thoughts. Was there already enough suspicion against Hillcock to warrant taking him in for questioning? The recorder woman had been at the scene as well, of course; her input was going to be crucial. Her calmness was unusual. And there was the family to deal with yet. The first hours after finding a murdered body were the most vital, as he’d been told a hundred times.
He led Hillcock through the tank room, glancing at Deirdre Watson, who was still standing in the office, perhaps not wanting to miss the excitement. ‘Could you turn the machine off?’ he asked Gordon. Obligingly, the farmer went to a corner of the tank room and stooped over an oily-looking contraption on the floor. A second later, there was blessed silence. The world seemed reborn in that moment. A kind of normality settled over the proceedings, as Den tried to maintain his close observation of the two key witnesses.
‘The cows need to be bedded down,’ Gordon said woodenly. ‘Am I allowed to go and shut them in for the night?’
‘How long will it take?’ Den asked him.
‘Well …’ Gordon glanced at his half-washed parlour. ‘I haven’t finished in here, either. I need another half an hour or so to get it all done.’
‘Okay,’ Den decided, after a moment’s thought. Strictly speaking, the man ought not to be left unsupervised, but Den could see no valid reason for putting a watch over him at this stage. If he’d wanted to run away, he’d surely have done it by now. ‘But don’t do any more washing down. Just see that the cows are all right for the night. Don’t go into the barn, either. Wait here in the office until Constable Smithson comes back, or the SOCO chaps arrive. I’ll meet you at the house in a little while.’
He glanced at his watch: nearly seven o’clock already. He turned back to Deirdre. ‘You can go home now. Leave your name and address on here—’ he tapped a piece of paper on the table, ‘and somebody will call and interview you tomorrow. Phone number as well, of course.’
‘But I have to be here again tomorrow morning,’ she said with a distracted air. ‘For the recording. Can I fetch my pots? I’m nowhere near finished up yet.’
Gordon coughed. ‘You’d better be here,’ he said. ‘God knows what’ll happen now. We might need this month’s recording figures.’
Deirdre’s vehement reaction took Den by surprise. ‘Gordon!’ she said. ‘It won’t come to anything like that.’
‘You’ve lost me,’ Den interrupted.
‘He’s t
hinking he might have to sell the herd,’ she explained swiftly.
Den shook his head. You had to hand it to farmers, they certainly kept their minds on the job at all times.
For a few minutes the yard was a jumble of manoeuvring vehicles. Deirdre left and more police personnel arrived. Den wondered again if he should keep an eye on Hillcock; after all, the man was out in the dark somewhere with any number of unpleasant implements available to him. He could go berserk and attack the police officers, or even turn a scythe on himself. Until this moment, Den had successfully suppressed all thoughts of Lilah and this man together. He had kept his mind firmly and professionally on the matter in hand. But no longer. By some incomprehensible trick, Gordon Hillcock had stolen his – Den’s – fiancée from under his very nose, and Den hated him for it. He wanted to go out and grab the man and throw him into the smallest, smelliest prison he could find.
But common sense prevailed and reminded him that he was going to have to tread very carefully. He went back to the barn, now filling rapidly. ‘Any idea of the time of death?’ he asked the doctor, who was peeling off rubber gloves and showing every sign of having completed his examination for the time being.
‘Not more than six and not less than three, three and a half, hours ago,’ he said. ‘As far as I can tell for now.’ He consulted a thermometer which had been on the floor beside the body. ‘It’s relatively warm in here, compared to outside. That’ll have to be factored in. I’d say it must have been between two and three-thirty this afternoon.’ Den made a careful note. Deirdre had already told him that the milking had started just after three, at which point she had been on the farm for an hour. The body had been found at five-thirty.
The police doctor rubbed his nose with a stubby thumb. ‘Interesting scene for a killing,’ he remarked. ‘My granddad had a farm. Funny how the smells can be so evocative – that silage! Takes me right back to being ten again. And by the way, I think you can exclude any thought of firearm injuries. Something sharp, is my first impression. But you know the routine, Cooper. Wait for the PM, okay?’
