by Rebecca Tope
Jane had known better than to protest. Inspector Hemsley had been struggling enough as it was, without her stating the obvious. Her task was to talk to Lilah Beardon, get her take on relations between Hillcock, O’Farrell and Speedwell, and as much background as possible on how Hillcock had come to steal her away from Detective Sergeant Den Cooper. ‘We’d have to question her anyway,’ Danny said. ‘It’s just that Cooper obviously isn’t the person to do it.’
‘He shouldn’t be on this case, should he?’ she blurted. ‘It’s … messy.’
Hemsley nodded. ‘Didn’t have a lot of choice,’ he admitted. ‘Manpower being what it is. We’re running not much over half-strength, with Phil off sick all this time. I don’t have to tell you that I trust Den implicitly. I don’t believe for a minute that there’s anything in this idea of him taking revenge on Hillcock. But the Super’s asking us to bear it in mind, so there it is.’
‘Funny way to take revenge,’ she muttered. ‘Why not just stick the fork in Hillcock himself?’
‘Precisely. Which is why the idea’s crazy. But see the girl for me, will you? Watch for reactions to names and don’t be afraid to drop some hints about Cooper. It’s what you do best, Nugent.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The crucial one-to-one interview needed to be set up properly. A casual encounter in a farmyard, with people coming and going, was not her intention. At a loss for a moment, she tried to work out a strategy, sitting in her unmarked car in a layby a few miles from Dunsworthy, where she had initially decided to search for her quarry. She had tried phoning Lilah’s home from the station and received no reply. The young woman’s movements were unclear, although Den had provided some scanty notes at the outset, including everyone associated with Sean O’Farrell. Still living officially at Redstone, but seems to spend a lot of time at Dunsworthy. Studying at Bicton, schedule at present unknown, he had reported about his former girlfriend.
It was unprofessional to try to intercept her, Jane decided. And a waste of police time, into the bargain. Better by far to keep trying Redstone and request a proper interview there. With a sense of an unpleasant necessity postponed, she started the engine and headed back towards Okehampton.
If she had continued on her way to Dunsworthy, she could have observed a scene that involved two apparently minor players in the investigation.
In one of the workers’ cottages, at eleven that morning, Eliot Speedwell was confronting his father. A subdued, hesitant, anguished exchange, but a confrontation for all that.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Eliot repeated. ‘I only heard this morning, and then by accident. You knew I was his friend. You knew how upset I’d be.’
Ted stood beside the living room door, one hand holding it half open, his body leaning towards the passageway as if being pulled by an invisible thread. His son had been to the farmyard, located his father, and dragged him back to the house for a private talk. Anxious about the desertion of his duties, Ted was inattentive, his accent thickened by worry.
‘’Twas on telly,’ he said. ‘Us thought ’ee’d have seen it by now.’
‘I hardly ever watch television,’ Eliot snapped. ‘I don’t even know now if I’ve got the story right.’
‘’Tis best ’ee don’t know too much. Us wanted ’ee to keep away, keep out of trouble. Sean’s gone now and is never coming back again, like it or not.’
Eliot’s lean face crumpled. Taller than his father, slender, looking younger than his thirty-two years, he leant heavily on the back of the old settee. ‘It can’t be true,’ he whispered.
‘’Tis surprising how the shock wears off,’ his father assured him. ‘Seems a long time ago now, to us already. Heather …’ He cut himself off with a frown, glancing yet again out into the passage.
‘What? Heather’s what?’ Eliot prompted irritably.
Ted rubbed his chin, seemingly trying to keep his mouth shut. But the words emerged anyway. ‘Her be doin’ well,’ he said weakly. ‘No cause to worry about Heather.’
Eliot stared at him, eyes slightly bulging. ‘Why in God’s name should I worry about Heather?’ he demanded. ‘It never crossed my mind. Surely she’s not pretending she ever loved him, or anything sick like that?’
Ted spluttered. ‘Her be his wife,’ he said.
Eliot let his head droop until his chin almost touched his chest. His shoulders shook slightly, his hands tight on the well-stuffed settee. Then he looked at his father again. ‘Yes, I know,’ he grated. ‘Heather was his wife. And I was just his friend – who nobody even bothered to inform of his death.’
Ted had had enough. ‘I be goin’ back to work,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t be here, this time of day. You get back, too. There’s be the sack for ’ee, if ’ee just walk off without a word. Sean O’Farrell’s gone, and there’s an end to it. Police coming and going, giving us all the willies. They be most likely wanting to know the reason why, if they catch ’ee hanging about the place looking like the world’s gone scatt. ’Tis likely to upset your mother, and I won’t have that. Get back to work and forget that bugger next door. Un never did ’ee no good, ’tis better off we’ll all be without’n, see if I’m not right.’
Eliot did as he was told. His father went ahead of him to the door, and as he pulled it wide, another thought struck him. ‘And clear up that midden out front,’ he ordered. ‘Been here too long as ’tis. Don’t know what us be thinking of, letting you dump it all here.’
Eliot swept the untidiness with a chastened gaze. ‘I forgot all about it,’ he confessed. ‘I’ll take one of the bikes with me now, in the back of the car. The rest’s just junk. I don’t know why I ever thought I wanted it.’
‘Thank Christ for that!’ Ted rejoiced.
His son frowned, and started to explain. ‘It’s just … moving house …’ he faltered. ‘I didn’t know …’
‘Don’t fret, son,’ said Ted. ‘You’ve had a bad time of it, but now’s the moment to set it all behind you. Make a new start, find yourself a nice girl.’
Eliot stared at the wintry fields across the lane. ‘You know, Dad – I might just do that,’ he said.
‘The Watson kids’ll be at school,’ Den remarked to Young Mike. ‘Home around four, I’d guess. That leaves most of the day with not a lot to do. Any suggestions?’
‘Lunch,’ said Mike firmly. ‘Didn’t we say we’d check West Tavy out?’
‘You mean the Six Bells?’ Den was distracted, his thoughts sluggish; he couldn’t immediately remember why they’d been interested in the pub at West Tavy.
‘Right. If we get there early we can have a word with the landlord. Didn’t the woman at the Limediggers tell you that Sean O’Farrell used to drink there?’
Den squeezed his eyes shut, trying to dispel images of Lilah confiding to Nugent the depths of her feelings for Hillcock. ‘Good idea. Except it’s barely eleven yet. Bit early for lunch.’
‘We can go the long way.’
‘Good idea,’ sighed Den. ‘Head for Bridestowe and then left. I always like that avenue of chestnuts, or whatever they are.’
‘Not so fine in January,’ said Mike, but took the road indicated, anyway.
Twenty minutes later, still uncomfortably early for lunch, they were approaching the tiny settlement of West Tavy. Tucked into the folds of the Devon countryside, on the edge of Dartmoor, it boasted panoramic views in one direction only. On all other sides it was sheltered by high hedges and tall trees, even in winter, with a sense of concealment and ancient ways at odds with modern laws and moralities.
As they got out of the car, Mike drew Den’s attention to a group of four men in green body warmers, gathered in a gateway, holding equipment comprising canisters and rubber tubing. Three large black plastic sacks sat on the ground at their feet. ‘What d’you think they’re up to?’ Mike wondered.
Den studied the group for a few moments. ‘Ministry men,’ he concluded. ‘I’d say they were gassing badgers. Not very discreet, either. Clever timing, though – broad daylight o
n a weekday, when the protesters are all at work or college. Filthy business, all the same. Looks as if they’ve had a productive morning.’ He nodded at the unmoving sacks.
‘What are they hoping to gain?’ Mike’s gaze was riveted on the group, with the inescapable fascination that Den himself felt for professional killers. He knew they were pondering the question of whether it was right to cull wild animals, struggling with the inescapable dilemma between gut reaction and trust in the logic of officialdom.
‘Can’t be helped,’ Den muttered, turning away. ‘Let’s hope it’s a quick death for the poor things.’
The pub was cold and smoky; a sad-looking log fire had only recently been lit, and the wood must have been damp. The air smelt of stale beer and dust. ‘Bit different from the Limediggers,’ Mike observed in a low voice. There was no sign of anyone to serve them a drink.
Two other people were present: hard-looking men in their early thirties. One had long, lank hair tied in a greasy red bandanna, his face grooved like a much older man’s. The other had a prickly, close-cropped scalp, and a scrubby beard. Den didn’t think either of them were agricultural workers; they lacked that indefinably settled air, the look of endurance that he associated with men who worked all day with livestock.
‘Any chance of a drink around here?’ he said loudly.
‘You want Beryl. She’ll be back in a minute,’ said the long-haired drinker.
‘I see the cull’s underway, then,’ Den continued. ‘Can’t mistake those Ministry men out there.’
The two did not react other than with curt nods and a semi-shrug from the crop-headed one. Den concluded that they held no brief for badgers, or perhaps for any living creatures, humans included. It was tempting to stereotype them as mere louts, so morally bankrupt that any feelings of kindness or sympathy were utterly out of the question. But Den did not like to write people off so easily.
‘People round here think the cull’s okay, do they?’ he pursued.
‘More or less,’ agreed Long Hair, evidently the talkative half of the pair.
‘Because TB’s such a problem in the dairy herds, right?’
‘Right.’
A woman appeared behind the bar – faded blonde, weary-looking, wiping her hands on a grey tea towel. ‘What’re you having?’ she asked, with no sign of curiosity or surprise at their appearance.
Den scanned the paucity of handles lined in front of the woman: two kinds of bitter, cider and Stella Artois. ‘Pint of bitter, please,’ he said cautiously. ‘Any chance of food?’
‘Ham sandwich, cheese sandwich – and there might be a bit of roast beef left. I can have a look if you like.’
Den looked at Mike, who unenthusiastically indicated a preference for Stella and a ham sandwich. Den decided to skip the food. Beryl produced the drinks and wandered away to see to the sandwich. There was no sign of anyone else on the premises; no distant clattering in a kitchen or footsteps overhead.
‘She runs this place on her own, does she?’ Den asked Long Hair and his friend.
‘Lunchtime, yeah. Not much business this time o’ year.’
‘Sean O’Farrell drank here, didn’t he?’ Den made a firm assumption that the news of Sean’s death was thoroughly spread by this time.
The slightest flicker of wariness was manifested: eyes narrowing, lips hardening. ‘What if he did?’
‘Must have been a shock to everyone who knew him.’
‘There’s few who’ll be sorry.’
‘What about you?’
Another shrug. Crop Head sniffed noisily, but Den didn’t think the sound denoted grief. ‘Do I take it you’re not much bothered?’
‘You the police?’ Crop Head asked suddenly. ‘Axing all these questions.’
‘CID,’ Den confirmed. ‘Just looking for some background info on O’Farrell. What sort of bloke he was; who might not have liked him. The usual sort of thing.’ He swigged his beer between phrases.
‘Lived dangerously, did Sean,’ Long Hair muttered. ‘Never cared much what people thought of him.’
‘So who do you think killed him?’ The question, direct and without warning, was intended to take them unawares.
‘Gordon Hillcock, of course,’ came the easy answer. ‘If you’re choosing between Hillcock and poor old Ted Speedwell, there’s no contest. And who else would walk into Dunsworthy yard in broad daylight, just before milking?’ The man guffawed cynically. ‘Not much need for CID heavies on this one, I’d have thought.’
Den nodded amicably and eyed Mike as he gamely embarked on the thick sandwich made with dry white bread and slender slices of ham. ‘Sounds as if you know all about it,’ he observed.
‘Saw it on the news,’ said the man. ‘And everyone with a sister between Exeter and Launceston knows Gordon Hillcock.’
From outside there was the sound of slamming car doors; Den moved to the window. The green-clad Ministry men were climbing into a Range Rover in the pub car park. The black sacks and gassing equipment were nowhere to be seen – evidently they’d been stashed in the back. He watched the men as they remained in the vehicle, passing packets and bottles to each other. ‘Seems they don’t rate the lunches here,’ he muttered to nobody in particular.
Ten minutes later, both the Ministry Land Rover and the blue police car left the Six Bells. As Den and Mike drove out into the narrow country lane, following the Land Rover, a second vehicle appeared from the right. An elderly Metro, it hooted aggressively and seemed to be trying to intercept the Range Rover. If so, it failed.
‘Why are they hooting?’ wondered Mike.
‘They’re not really trying to catch them,’ Den guessed. ‘Just making their feelings known.’
The Ministry vehicle accelerated away as quickly as the winding lanes would permit. Den tried to see the occupants of the Metro. There were four of them, all apparently young. As the driver thrust it into gear and set it moving in pursuit of the Range Rover, Den recognised Sam Watson on the back seat.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
‘Guess we won’t have to wait till after school now,’ said Mike, when Den had told him who he’d recognised. They were conducting a somewhat jerky car chase. Ahead of them the Metro was still hooting aggressively at the Ministry Range Rover, which ignored them completely, driving frustratedly through the narrow country lanes.
‘It’ll be interesting when we reach the main road,’ said Den.
In the event it was all over very quickly. The Ministry men evidently had their strategy honed to a fine art, and took an unexpected diversion up an even narrower lane on the left. The Metro almost overshot the turning and stalled. Den elected to wait until it got started again, still unsure as to whether the young driver had even noticed the car following close behind him. At the end of the new lane, a right turn, followed quickly by another left, took traffic out onto the Plymouth road. The Metro had no hope of catching up and Den and Mike watched the faltering reduction in speed as the pursuers realised they had lost their quarry.
‘Best just follow them quietly,’ Den decided. ‘Don’t want them doing anything silly.’
It didn’t take long. Within ten minutes the Metro was pulling into the front driveway of a neat semi-detached house. Den was standing beside the car before all four had got out of it.
‘Sam Watson?’ he asked the girl from the back seat. ‘You might remember me.’
Startled, she stared up at him, obviously wondering where he had come from, how and why. It took her several seconds to remember where she had last seen him. ‘You’re that detective that was in the Limediggers,’ she said eventually. The others clustered round wordlessly, their faces pictures of anxiety, curiosity and bewilderment. Young Mike remained beside the police car, no more than a casual bystander, to all appearances. In reality, he was effectively blocking the exit to the driveway, in case somebody opted to make a dash for it.
‘We’d like you to come with us,’ Den told Sam calmly. ‘We’ll drive you home and ask a few questions there.’
&nb
sp; ‘What – now?’ Her head went jerkily round the circle of her friends, one by one, as if searching for elucidation as to what might be happening. ‘But I need to be back at school—’
‘She didn’t do anything,’ said the boy who had been on the back seat with her. ‘She wasn’t driving. Why are you picking on her?’
‘This has nothing to do with what we’ve just observed,’ Den told him. ‘It was our good luck that we happened on you the way we did. Nobody’s saying she did anything; we just want to ask her a few questions, to assist us with our enquiries.’
The boy frowned. ‘More enquiries?’ He scratched his neck and stared at the bare hedge bordering the front garden.
‘That’s right. Now Sam, if you’re ready?’
‘You don’t have to go, Sam,’ the boy urged. ‘They can’t make you.’
Den took out his notebook and pencil. ‘While I’m here, I’d better make a note of your names,’ he decided. ‘Just in case. After all, you have just been trying to interfere with government business, if I’m not mistaken. Let’s see if I’ve got this right. You must be Jeremy Page …’
The boy nodded grudgingly. Den went on. ‘And you two are Susie Marchand and Paul Tyler, if I remember rightly?’ He eyed the driver and the girl who had been in the front passenger seat. ‘What happened to Davy Champion, then?’
Jeremy Page said nothing, but scowled blackly and Den became aware of a suppressed rage that had violence threaded through it. The boy’s fists were clenched and his chin raised defiantly. Den recognised the type: a youngster accustomed to regular knocks to his adolescent pride, either from a domineering father or a peer group that scorned him. Den suspected the former. The terrier-like defiance gave it away: the boy was used to someone bigger than him throwing his weight about, so all he could effectively do was duck and yap and keep his spirit alive by a dogged refusal to cringe.
