by Rebecca Tope
‘I ought never to have been such a fool,’ she said, whenever she told the terrible story. ‘Letting them die like that, with their throats closed up and the little faces turning blue.’
Gordon’s father, Norman, had been her sole surviving infant, her eldest, and she spoilt him mercilessly, as if to compensate. Not satisfied with coddling him, she’d then transferred her attentions to Gordon, her son’s firstborn, when he came along. When Norman died at sixty-nine, she had grieved as if he’d been another child lost as a result of her own carelessness. That death had tipped her into unavoidable old age, at ninety-five, and she had retreated to her room, venturing out very little since.
But Gordon never doubted her abiding powers. She could see and hear and think almost as well as ever. He was going to have to go up and have one of their long chats very soon now. He’d been putting it off since the events of Tuesday, not knowing how he’d explain Sean’s death to her. After that visit from the police detective, she’d be wondering what was going on. It hadn’t escaped his notice that she’d been watching from her window for longer than usual, tapping and waving, and sometimes gesticulating as if she had something urgent to say.
The cows were warm and comfortable in the vast shed, in no hurry to get up and stand outside in the chilly yard, waiting their turn to be milked. There were some who seemed to understand that the sooner they presented themselves in the parlour, the sooner they could get back to the nice dry straw, and who jostled their way to the front accordingly. Others – especially those with stiff legs – saw no reason to hurry. The ones approaching the end of their lactation received only small quantities of food during milking, and thus lacked much incentive to show up. It would be well over two hours before that last batch emerged from being milked and that was a long time to stand in the yard. But there was no alternative to making every last one of them get up and assemble outside, so he could pull the big gate closed behind them.
The milk recorder had never quite got the hang of all the different systems that farmers and their herdsmen used for separating and directing the cows, and she often marvelled aloud at how complicated it could be. Some farms divided the herd into two or three groups, sending them out into three separate yards, with manipulation of various gates. Gordon had tried to explain, to show why it was inexpedient to bring them out a few at a time. Far better to get the whole lot into the gathering yard, whatever the weather. ‘Sean would never stand for the messing about that would involve,’ he said, to her suggestion that the later beasts be allowed to have a lie-in.
Without Sean, Gordon was going to need a relief milker very soon. He should have done it before now, but he’d let it slide, on the grounds that Lilah would always take a turn if he asked her to.
Thinking about Lilah was a practice that Gordon tried to keep to a minimum. She was the brightest girlfriend he’d ever had: eager and young and ready for anything. She was also naïve and trusting, believing everything he told her. She was malleable and cooperative. She aroused feelings in him that he hadn’t expected to experience ever again. He was close to forty, for God’s sake. How could he possibly think he deserved such a girl?
And how could he expect her to settle for a chap like him?
By Tuesday midday, the news of Deirdre Watson’s arrest had begun to spread. She had been kept in custody overnight, pending further questioning in the morning, and was permitted two phone calls, accordingly. She rejected the offer of a state-funded solicitor and made a single call to her husband.
Robin was stunned to the point of paralysis. Deirdre had to speak slowly and loudly, giving him no more than the basic facts. ‘They’re keeping me in tonight,’ she said, hearing herself and thinking how it sounded as if she was in hospital, not a police cell. ‘You’d better tell the kids the truth.’
‘But you didn’t kill him,’ Robin spluttered. ‘Did you?’
‘Of course I didn’t,’ she said sharply. ‘I don’t believe you said that.’
‘But … I mean, it’s all a mistake then?’
‘More or less. Look, Rob, I don’t think there’s anything you can really do for now. Just stay calm. It’ll work out all right. Trust me.’
She asked him to let Carol know that she might not be able to do the next day’s recording. ‘Tell her I’m ill,’ she said.
She marvelled briefly at her own restored calm. When other people flapped, she turned to ice, coolly doing whatever she had to. It had always got her into trouble, even as a child. There was that time when the dog had got run over and she had walked into the road and scooped up the mangled body without a hint of emotion. She’d been seven.
Robin called Carol, who all too easily got the truth out of him. Carol phoned Bob Parsons, who happened to be a close friend of hers, as well as due for recording the following day. Robin told Sam and Matthew, and Sam phoned Jeremy Page and Susie Marchand. Most of them phoned one or two others and by that evening Eliot Speedwell had heard the news and driven to Dunsworthy to talk to his parents. Ted ran up to the big house to make sure the Hillcocks had heard – which they hadn’t. Jilly went next door to check whether Heather knew – which she did, because Abigail’s Gary had told them.
Everyone was stunned. Some laughed scornfully; some narrowed their eyes and said they’d always thought that Watson woman was peculiar. Some flatly refused to believe it. ‘Just a stupid rumour,’ they said. ‘Everyone knows ’twas Hillcock as done it.’
The one person who had not heard of Deirdre’s arrest by that evening was, surprisingly, Lilah Beardon. And she was going to learn of it very soon, because she was on her way back to Dunsworthy.
The peculiar atmosphere in the kitchen made her heart lurch. Something else must have happened. She scanned the three faces for clues as to what it must be. ‘What?’ she demanded.
‘You’ve not heard, then?’ Gordon smiled at her, triumph on his lips. In his eyes, though, there was something darker. His eyes held no spark of humour or compassion.
‘What?’ she said again. Mary, sitting at the table writing on a sheet of paper, made a small huff of impatience. Claudia, in her usual chair beside the Aga with a cat in her lap and a radio mumbling close to her ear, took pity. ‘Tell her, Gordon, for heaven’s sake.’
‘They’ve arrested Deirdre Watson for the murder of Sean O’Farrell.’ He parodied the formality, turning himself into a newscaster for the occasion.
Lilah’s heart jumped again, this time in relief. She felt the fear roll away from her and her mouth stretched in a big daft grin. ‘Are you sure?’ she checked. ‘It’s not just a wild rumour?’
‘Sounds pretty sure,’ he confirmed. ‘They’re holding her in custody. You must be the last person in Devon to know about it.’
‘Oh!’ She raised her arms, preparatory to flinging them round him. ‘That’s wonderful!’
Gordon brought his hands up, fending her off. As she launched herself at him, he caught her by the ribs and held her at arm’s length. ‘Steady on,’ he cautioned. ‘Don’t go mad.’
She was jarred by his tone, made to feel silly and childish. ‘But aren’t you glad? I knew it must have been her. It all pointed that way. But I didn’t think the penny would drop this quickly. The police must be brighter than I’ve given them credit for. Oh, I bet Den’s feeling sick.’ She wriggled loose from Gordon’s hold, aware that she’d have done better not to mention Den’s name.
‘I imagine he wanted it to be me,’ Gordon said tightly.
‘He’s never pretended to like you.’
‘That’s not the same thing, is it?’ said Mary angrily. ‘There is such a thing as justice.’
‘Of course there is,’ Lilah laughed. ‘And this proves it. It’s all come right, after all.’
Claudia spoke from her chair. ‘You know what this reminds me of? When there’s been a child killed, or someone’s wife or husband. And there’s a trial and a person is convicted. Afterwards, the relatives of the victim all cluster in front of the TV cameras and say how happy they are. I always
think, how can they possibly be happy? How can it help them, whether somebody’s shut up for years as a punishment? It doesn’t bring the dead person back again.’
Lilah turned to stare at her. ‘They want to know the person who ruined their lives has been dealt with. Surely you must understand that, doing the work you do? They feel glad that the whole thing has become a bit less meaningless. Everybody likes there to be a proper end to the story. But anyway, this is nothing at all like that. This is about Gordon’s innocence, Gordon being free. Nobody here is pretending to be very sorry that Sean’s dead, as far as I can see.’
Claudia nodded acknowledgement of an argument deserving of respect, making a clear choice to overlook the rudeness in the middle of Lilah’s speech. ‘But in real life, stories never do have neat and tidy endings.’
‘This one does,’ Lilah said defiantly.
Claudia sighed. ‘I don’t think so,’ she murmured. ‘And even if it does look like a tidy ending, the beginning was terribly messy.’
‘Come on, Ma!’ Gordon protested. ‘We don’t want to bring all that up now.’
‘I expect we’ll have to, sooner or later,’ said his mother.
Jilly Speedwell was torn in two directions. Ted had turned to jelly when he got back from telling the Hillcocks the news. He confessed to his wife that he had been terrified that Eliot was responsible. ‘I know ’tis daft,’ he said. ‘He even had witnesses at work to say he was there all afternoon. I just couldn’t help feeling …’
‘I know,’ she soothed. ‘I was scared they’d think it was you. But all’s right now.’ Her words were a brave attempt at calming them both, but she remained jittery and nervous. ‘I’ll go and see to Heather,’ she decided, having spent very few minutes imparting the news next door, while Ted went up to the farmhouse. Now she felt obliged to minister to both neighbour and husband at once.
Ted showed no sign of having heard her. ‘But why?’ he demanded. ‘Why would the recorder kill Sean? There be no sense to it, woman.’
‘Must be right, though. She was here that day. Must’ve done it before milking started. Gordon in the house with his papers, or the office. You in the Dutch barn. Her and Sean out in the yard.’ She shuddered. ‘Cold-hearted bitch.’
‘Will they prove it, you think? Blood on her clothes maybe?’
Jilly shrugged. The excitement was doing strange things to her insides, making them all quivery. The idea that a woman could drive a fork into someone’s undefended body was somehow thrilling. Liberating. She came close to wondering why she hadn’t done it herself to the slimy worm that had been Sean O’Farrell, with his shifty eyes and nasty ways with animals.
She turned back to Ted, sitting so small in his chair. No, she wouldn’t bother going back to see Heather. Why should she? Heather had made no effort to stop Sean’s tricks. She’d opted out with her stupid illness, leaving the way clear for the man to do as he liked. ‘Us’ll be fine now,’ she repeated. ‘Gordon’ll find a new herdsman, and things’ll go on as always. We can forget that bugger Sean O’Farrell now.’
Early on Wednesday morning, with rain slanting down outside, blown by a vicious east wind, Deirdre Watson was brought yet again into the interview room for more questioning. As before, DI Hemsley and DS Cooper were present.
‘We didn’t cover everything yet, did we?’ the DI began. ‘You might say we got sidetracked. But now we know who had good reason to kill Sean O’Farrell, it would help to fill in some of the gaps.’
‘I did not kill him,’ said Deirdre. Her eyes were bright, her hair well brushed. She seemed quite undaunted after a night in a cell. ‘I can’t understand how you’ve made such a mistake, but honestly, you’ve got the whole thing wrong.’
Hemsley proceeded as if she hadn’t spoken. Den noted the flicker of alarm in the woman’s eyes at this deliberate shutting-out. It was an old technique, unkind and unfair, in Den’s view. ‘So you don’t approve of badger baiting?’ the Inspector said softly.
‘Of course I don’t. Who does? It’s sick, what they do. You should hear my daughter on the subject …’
‘Oh? That’s right – she campaigns for animals, doesn’t she?’
‘Very much so. There’s nothing wrong with that. They don’t break the law. But those youngsters are passionate about it. They’d kill anybody they caught baiting badgers or fighting dogs.’
Danny Hemsley cocked his head provokingly, letting her hear her own words again. ‘Surely not literally?’ he said. ‘My information is that young Samantha is seeing a lot of a certain Jeremy Page. And you may or may not know that Jeremy’s dad, Fred, owns a rather unpleasant pooch by the name of Brewster, who comes to our notice at regular intervals. Now, Fred and Sean were pals, by all accounts. Funny how you get all these connections in a country area, isn’t it? Everybody knowing everybody – and most of their business.’
‘If Sam likes Jeremy, you can be sure he’s nothing like his father. There is no way in the world that boy would be involved in baiting.’
Hemsley glanced at a sheet of notes in front of him. ‘But you don’t like Mr Page senior, do you?’
Deirdre didn’t reply. The DI went on, ‘Because I’ve got a quote here from someone we spoke to last week: “The Pages are just bloody gypsies with their savage dogs and vicious ways.” Do you remember saying that? You ought to, because it’s a quote from that same school bazaar at Christmas time where you had your little run-in with Sean O’Farrell. Quite a hot-headed lady, aren’t you, Mrs Watson?’
She sighed, but showed little sign of losing her composure. ‘Sometimes I lose my temper,’ she nodded. ‘But I don’t really see …’
‘What interests me – among other things – is how relations were between you and Sam once she started going out with Jeremy.’
‘I didn’t know for a while, and I’ve hardly seen her since I found out. She’s old enough to make her own decisions. I can’t say it bothers me particularly.’
‘You trust her judgement?’
‘Yes I do.’
‘Really? You don’t think she took up with him just to get at you?’
Deirdre laughed scornfully. ‘Absolutely not. She would never be so petty. We have a perfectly normal relationship. If she has a grievance, she’ll tell me about it to my face. She knows I say things I don’t mean sometimes. I shouldn’t have been so rude about the Pages, I realise now. Jeremy is nothing like his father.’
Hemsley used his pencil to add a little tick to the sheet of paper in front of him. ‘Now, let’s go back to badger baiting. It wasn’t just these past few days you picked up the rumours about that, was it? You’ve known for a long time that O’Farrell and his mates were doing it. Just as you’ve known about those bobby calves he was keeping without their ear-tags.’
Her cheeks reddened. ‘I guessed something was going on,’ she muttered. ‘You can shoot one or two calves a week and get the hunt to take them for the hounds, but there were nine or ten born at the beginning of November, most of them bulls, and I did wonder exactly what had happened to them. But it’s not my business to challenge what the farmers tell me. I just log it all onto the computer.’
Danny nodded, unsmiling. ‘So, Mrs Watson – could you tell me now of anything else you were aware of concerning Sean O’Farrell?’
She shook her head confidently. ‘There isn’t anything else. At least, I’ve already told you all I know. The attack by the Alsatian; his sick wife; his family background – I told your sergeant all that.’ She flipped a hand at Den, suggesting he produce his notes as confirmation.
‘Do you think Sean poisoned the Alsation?’
She glanced at Den hesitantly, before muttering, ‘Yes, I expect he did. But I haven’t got any proof.’
‘So what makes you think he did it?’
‘The dog humiliated him and Gordon made no attempt to punish it. When it died, I just assumed … it would be too much of a coincidence otherwise.’
‘Sean O’Farrell was a pretty unpleasant character all round, it seems. So
you felt you were doing the place a service by killing him. Maybe it was very much spur of the moment. Maybe he’d slipped over in the muck and the fork was there beside him and you just saw the red mist – drove it into him before you really knew what you were doing.’
‘I didn’t kill him. I didn’t touch him. I never even saw him that day.’
‘So who did?’
‘It must have been Gordon.’ The words emerged reluctantly.
Den crossed and recrossed his legs, causing both the others to look at him. Hemsley gave him a warning stare.
‘So despite Mr Hillcock’s obvious shock and distress at the discovery of the body and his apparently normal behaviour throughout the milking up to that point, you’re convinced of his guilt?’
‘I don’t see who else it could have been. Because it certainly wasn’t me.’
‘You like Gordon Hillcock, don’t you? Have you ever had sex with him?’
She turned to Den, as if seeking salvation. ‘Is he allowed to ask me that?’ she demanded. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘We’ll take that as a yes, then,’ said Hemsley sweetly. ‘Don’t worry, it isn’t very likely to come out in court. Though I’m afraid I can’t make any promises.’
‘I’ll deny it,’ she said hotly. ‘I do deny it. I absolutely have not been having sex with Gordon Hillcock. At least …’
‘At least?’
‘Not for more than twenty years,’ she admitted sullenly. ‘Before I married Robin.’
At last the police detective had what he wanted: a show of emotion and a definite flash of panic. Den pulled the lobe of one ear until it hurt. The job entailed treachery, he knew that. But he never got used to it.
