A Death to Record

by Rebecca Tope

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘For one thing, she got involved in a complaint against Sean, when she first started coming here. She claimed he was being cruel to some of the cows, and wrote a formal letter to Gordon about it. It caused rather a stink for a bit. Gordon had to go to some trouble to placate her. She was threatening to take it further, you see.’

  Den resisted an urge to downplay this new snippet. ‘Take it further? What would that involve?’

  She paused to think. ‘I’m not sure, now you ask.’

  ‘The RSPCA?’

  ‘Oh no. Nobody in farming has any time for them. Probably the Recording people she works for. Really, Sergeant, I don’t know who she’d have gone to.’

  ‘What did Gordon do?’

  She shrugged. ‘As I said before, we didn’t much like Sean’s ways of doing things either. But Gordon stuck up for him.’

  ‘Must have been awkward, though. Isn’t it surprising that Mrs Watson went on doing the recording here?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. I imagine they didn’t have anyone else in the area. She does virtually all the farms around here, as far as I know. It all settled down again, and we heard no more on the subject. But, after what’s happened, you ought to know about it – don’t you think?’

  ‘Any information’s useful,’ Den assured her. ‘It all helps to build up the complete picture. And what was the other thing?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You said, “for one thing”. That implied there was something else you could tell me.’

  ‘Oh. Well – just that Deirdre Watson – or Deirdre Dawe as she was – always had a crush on Gordon, from when they were at school. He never really responded, but they went out together a few times when they were about nineteen. I remember teasing him about it. She was never much to look at – and she had awful spots. She’s improved a lot with age, funnily enough. But she always makes a point of watching out for him when she’s here, even if he’s not doing the milking. I saw her last summer, when she didn’t know I was there. Well – the look on her face!’

  ‘Tell me,’ Den prompted.

  ‘It was quite obvious that she’s still carrying a torch for him.’

  As he walked to his car, he caught sight of Gordon Hillcock emerging from the bulk tank room. The man’s broad chest gave him a powerful look in the shadowy light. His silhouette seemed a collection of chunky rectangular shapes – even his head seemed boxy, set squarely on his shoulders. He walked heavily, doubtless weary from the long day’s work after a night with very little sleep. Den tried not to notice the lack of spring in the man’s step. The last thing he wanted was to feel any pity for the man who’d stolen his girlfriend; the man who had surely murdered his herdsman.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  With a strong sense of having put in a satisfactory day’s work, Den drove back to the station hoping to catch Hemsley. But it was seven-fifteen when he got there and the Inspector had gone. There was, however, a new page of forensic findings on Den’s desk, with a post-it sticker from Danny: Thought this might interest you.

  Analysis of deceased’s clothing: traces of oil, animal manure, blood (human and animal), animal hairs (various), organic matter (soil, fermented grass, corn husks). Blood types and hairs currently undergoing laboratory examination.

  Analysis of Mr Gordon Hillcock’s clothing, namely rubber apron, trousers, shirt, woollen jersey, rubber wellington boots: traces of organic matter (similar to above), animal manure, animal blood, animal hairs (very small quantity). No human blood found.

  Den scowled angrily at the page in his hand. No human blood on Hillcock’s clothes? Then he shrugged his worries away. So he had managed to avoid getting Sean’s blood on himself – or washed it off. The apron and boots would receive a thorough cleaning in the milking parlour anyway. Little surprise, in fact, that there was nothing to be found. But this lack of hard evidence was a blow, for all that.

  He went back to the first paragraph, pulling a face at the long list of substances found on O’Farrell’s clothes. What were all those animals he’d been in such close contact with? The answer came swiftly: his daughter’s collection of pets. Sean sometimes fed them – did he also take them out and handle them? Did he, to quote Mary Hillcock – torment them?

  There was also a report of Mike’s interview with Jilly Speedwell. In summary, it read, Didn’t have much to do with O’Farrell. Sometimes did a bit of shopping for him. Out from 10.45 to 2.45 on Tuesday. Numerous witnesses to confirm this.

  Den put the files back on his desk and left the office. Almost the whole building was in darkness. Any emergencies during the night would go through the Control office miles away, and be passed on to the night staff in the few stations that stayed open around the clock. But Den’s team was now investigating a murder and time meant little. Danny, Mike, Jane or Den could be summoned day or night, as well as a few uniformed officers who could be attached to them for routine legwork. The trick was to catch some sleep when the chance arose, and now he intended to do just that.

  Deirdre and Robin Watson spent the early evening together, trying to decide whether and when to have a summer holiday. ‘I have to tell Carol what I’m doing,’ she said, as she did every year.

  ‘Five months’ notice is more than enough, if you ask me,’ replied her husband. ‘Anything can happen between now and June.’

  Deirdre was forced to agree. At least three of her farms had made warning noises about going out of milk and another three were threatening to stop having their herds recorded. It was, as Robin said, quite possible that she’d have a lot less work by June.

  ‘Are we taking the kids with us?’ she asked.

  ‘Let’s not,’ he grinned boyishly at her. ‘They make me feel old. Sam’s got plans to go to Glastonbury this year, anyway.’

  Deirdre moaned, and Robin made it worse by telling her more of their daughter’s doings. ‘She’s got very involved in the animal rights stuff. It’s the new boyfriend. They were trying to disrupt the Lamerton hunt last weekend.’

  Deirdre moaned again. ‘That’s all we need. I hope nobody connects her with me. Most of my farmers are in favour of the hunt – more than ever, now it’s under threat. I’ll never live it down if they find out my daughter’s sabotaging.’

  ‘Not to mention badgers,’ Robin carried on. ‘I found a leaflet that must have fallen out of her schoolbag. I pretended not to see it.’

  ‘Coward. Who’s the boyfriend, anyway?’ She had long ago come to terms with the way her husband and daughter exchanged confidences that she only ever learnt secondhand. She knew Robin would eventually tell her anything important.

  ‘He’s called Jeremy Page. Lives near Tavistock. He’s twenty-two and works for that computer place on the Horrabridge road. Sounds quite bright.’

  ‘Not related to Fred Page, I hope.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Fred Page. Farmer from hell. Not much better than a gypsy.’

  ‘Ah – the one with muck up to the eyeballs and cows that cringe at the sight of him?’

  ‘That’s the one. I pray every night that he’ll give up milk, but there’s no sign of it so far. How long has this new romance been going on?’

  ‘Started at the Millennium party. Early days. All I’ve got is a name and a job.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think I could bear it if he’s related to Fred.’

  Lilah spent half an hour that evening on the phone, ostensibly catching up with old friends. ‘Hilary? Hi, it’s me, Lilah … I know … time just flies. You heard about me and Den? … Yeah, well … Look, I was driving past your place at the weekend and saw Samantha Watson coming out of your gate with a boy that looked like that weird Jeremy, son of Fred Page, the one who was in the paper because he was at the anti-hunt protest at the weekend. I didn’t know you knew him … Oh, right. Everybody’s somebody’s cousin round here, I should have guessed. So they’re together now, are they? … I know … You can’t really blame the son for what his dad gets up to, but I can’t see Sam’s mum being
impressed. She records for the Pages, I think … Gosh, your uncle? … Sorry … no, not really, it’s just something my mother said about Sean and badgers and Fred Page. I wanted to check it out, that’s all … okay then, see you around.’

  ‘Hi, Tamsin. I was just chatting to Hilary … you know, Hilary Spencer. Lives near Chillaton. Anyway, I thought of you for some reason while we were chatting. I’ve got loads of catching up to do … Are you still going out with Davy Champion? And your sister – is she with Gorgeous Gary? What? But she’s only fifteen, isn’t she? … Did you hear about her dad? … yeah … Well, it’s all quite gruesome, obviously … I guess you know I’m with Gordon Hillcock now … right … so Abby’s with Gary now, is she? Who’d have thought it? Did you dump Davy or did he dump you, or shouldn’t I ask? … Sorry. I’ve really been out of things… How about Eliot Speedwell? Didn’t you fancy him a while ago? I know … he’s over thirty, so what. Gordon’s thirty-nine, actually … You’re joking, surely. He was in the Army! Well, that would explain why he’s never had a girlfriend. What a waste! … okay, Tams, better go. Keep in touch, right?’

  She put the phone down thoughtfully, letting her fingers do a cheery little dance on the receiver. ‘Nothing like networking,’ she muttered to herself.

  There was one further call to be made before the project was complete, made necessary by the startling suggestion that Eliot Speedwell was gay and had been seen in a gay bar in Plymouth.

  Practised at helping Den think through some of his detective puzzles, she knew the incalculable value of making connections. And she had seen Eliot a time or two at Dunsworthy before Christmas. He had been with Sean O’Farrell, walking close to him, smiling and laughing. It had meant nothing to her at the time, but now the implication cascaded around her head like a flock of pigeons.

  Focus, she adjured herself. Remember the plan. The next step was relatively simple.

  Thursday dawned wet and raw. Den’s spirits felt very much in tune with the weather as he looked out of the window at seven-thirty. Despite a good sleep and a bowl of porridge, he was not happy. Some time during the night he had dreamt of Lilah. She had been shouting at him with hate in her eyes, having caught him carrying Sean’s blood-soaked body and accusing him of planting evidence to incriminate Gordon Hillcock. In some way, this had struck Den as an entirely justified accusation, even though he had been intending only to take Sean to the mortuary. When he put the body down his arms and chest had been covered with tufts of red and black animal hair, sticky globs of blood arranged in neat lines across his body. ‘See!’ Lilah had shrieked at him, pointing a wavering finger at him. ‘What sort of evidence do you call that?’

  For a few minutes afterwards, Den had lain awake, wondering whether there might be a clue in the dream, something that had only registered in his unconscious mind. But if there was, he couldn’t see it. Now, in the grey January daylight, the nightmare seemed as irrational and meaningless as dreams usually did.

  He wasn’t sure what the day would bring by way of work. He’d interviewed all the main players at least once, and found little or nothing to divert him from his original assumption: that Gordon Hillcock had killed Sean O’Farrell. If they were to follow the usual routine, then the next step was to discover more about the victim: his friendships, his moral values, past experiences, future plans. Compared to previous murder investigations, Den knew he had a much more hazy image of the dead man than was usual. A hard worker, a committed husband and father, and yet nobody so far had claimed to like him. Although nothing had been said, Den wondered whether Sean could have been mentally disturbed. Prone to tormenting animals, argumentative, stubborn, tolerated but apparently disliked by local people, and seemingly a man who hadn’t properly known how to look after himself – it all suggested a certain social frailty.

  It was axiomatic that there would be undercurrents and connections yet to discover. The Hillcocks and the O’Farrells had been at Dunsworthy for generations; the Speedwells went back a way, too. The younger generation all went to the same school and conducted an endless dance of couplehood, changing partners regularly. They were all strands in a big net that Den knew he would have to disentangle if he was to understand why Sean had died.

  There were certain tenets that he’d imbibed with his early training, which he knew better than to ignore. Motivation for murder very often goes back a long way, for example. That one seemed of primary importance in this inquiry.

  Never assume that married couples are faithful or children legitimate. Experience had already taught him this as a firm maxim to keep in mind.

  The oddest things acquire major significance for people. Not just money, but politics, status, self-image, religious belief. People could kill someone for offending them, or making them look stupid. ‘O, I have lost my reputation, I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial.’ Exactly, thought Den. In a tight-knit rural community, loss of face could be worse than losing property or money. If you risked becoming a laughing stock, you might well kill to avert such a fate.

  Doggedly, he set off for work, walking the quarter-mile from home to police station. Shortly before Lilah left him, they’d been making definite plans to move into a new house during the coming spring. For a week or so after their separation, Den had wanted to get away quickly, to escape the memories and the aborted dreams. But he hadn’t been able to do it. He found he wasn’t capable of making the decision by himself. He kept expecting to discover that the whole thing was a silly mistake and Lilah would come back one day, grinning sheepishly. What if he moved to somewhere she didn’t like? Easier and safer to stay where he was for a few more months.

  There was little sign of a buzzing murder investigation at the police station. A phone was ringing and a printer chuntering in the first office he passed, but no sign of tension or urgency in the general atmosphere. As murder investigations went, this one was attracting very little excitement. Everyone knew that the chances of a successful prosecution depended largely on forensic findings. The case against Hillcock might be circumstantially strong, but would never be enough without something concrete to back it up.

  Danny was in his office, on the phone. ‘The Super,’ he mouthed at Den. He jotted something on a pad. ‘Very much so, sir. I think that’s absolutely right.’ After another few phrases of unconditional concurrence, he rang off.

  ‘He says we should concentrate more on motive,’ he told Den. ‘Give Forensics time to get all their results together, and hope we arrive at a coherent picture between us.’

  ‘It’s got to be him,’ Den insisted, half sitting on the desk. ‘The only other man on the place is Ted Speedwell and he’s a little mouse of a chap.’

  ‘Could have been a woman. I’ve been reading the pathology report again. There’s one theory that the victim could have been pushed over and attacked while on his back. Wouldn’t take much force to do the damage, then. Think how easy it is to drive a fork into your own foot. With gravity on your side, anyone of any normal strength could have done it.’

  ‘A kid?’

  ‘Teenager, anyway, yes. Can’t rule anybody out, as far as I can see.’

  ‘Please don’t tell me it could have been a hundred-and-one-year-old granny.’

  Danny grinned. ‘I think we can safely eliminate her.’

  ‘What about O’Farrell’s wife? She’s pretty fragile.’

  Danny shrugged. ‘We should get a medical opinion on her. She was on the spot, and—’

  ‘I know,’ Den interrupted. ‘The vast majority of murders are committed by someone in the family. But everyone at Dunsworthy is part of a big extended family, effectively. They’ve all lived there for decades.’

  The Inspector made two fists and knocked them gently together as he mustered his thoughts. ‘You’re saying O’Farrell and Hillcock were like brothers?’

  ‘Not quite,’ Den corrected. ‘None of the Hillcocks are acting as if they’ve lost a brother or a son. As far as I can see, the only person who cares a hoot abo
ut him is his daughter, young Abigail.’

  ‘People to interview, Cooper,’ said Hemsley, pushing himself up from his seat. ‘Neighbours, relatives. Get the big picture.’

  Den forced himself to relax and let Hemsley take charge. His own uncomfortable position was making him edgy, waiting for accusations that might never come. There were bound to be suspicions that he was too close to the people involved, but this was rural Devon, where Den had lived all his life, and if he were always to avoid cases involving people he knew, he’d be condemned for ever to some dull ghetto of farm subsidy swindles. In an ideal world, with infinite resources and total integrity, doubtless he would be taken off the case. As it was, the Devon Constabulary had little choice but to use him for the work he did best. Either that, or insist he transfer to another force altogether, somewhere else in the country.

  It took Danny five minutes to round up Mike and DC Jane Nugent. Den spent the time rereading the entire forensic report. Eventally they adjourned to the larger briefing room and settled themselves into the square plastic-seated chairs.

  The Inspector gave a brief summary of his exchange with Den and then recounted all the salient points of the investigation. ‘I’ve made a few enquiries myself,’ he revealed. ‘And I can tell you that there’s a chap called Fred Page, unpopular local farmer. Keeps some very nasty dogs. There’ve been complaints. One individual, by the name of Brewster, has a reputation all of his own. Kills cats for fun, apparently. The significance of this is that Fred Page and Sean O’Farrell were mates, by all accounts. So keep an eye out for anything there. Cruelty to animals is a big issue these days. It might sound over-dramatic, but it’s a viable motive for killing.’

  ‘Are you suggesting anything in particular, sir?’ asked Young Mike.

  ‘No speculation, Smithson. Just keep it in mind, okay?’

  Mike nodded.

  ‘Cooper and I were going over the pathology and forensic reports, and we think there’s a chance the attack could have come from a woman or even a sturdy youngster.’