He walked round the house, peering in the small-framed, small-paned windows, but even where the sun shone full upon them, they were too dusty and weather grimed to let him see beyond.
The back door was a simple piece of kit. No lock, just a latch. And of course a couple of hefty bolts inside, so’s an untrusting Yorkshire farmer could sleep secure in his bed.
He lifted the latch. There was no resistance. The door creaked open.
Now even a hardheaded, aging Yorkshire sergeant couldn’t stop his mind taking a couple of steps to a most unwelcome conclusion.
He entered the big farmhouse kitchen.
This would have been the center of life in the days when the Hollis family lived at Millstone. There was the old range where old Ma Hollis would have cooked the family meals, there was the long scarred table where the men would have sat to eat them, there was the great arched fireplace before which they would have crowded to dry themselves after a day in the thin cold rain or sat to stare at their futures in the glowing embers during the cold winter evenings.
At a corner of the table stood an overflowing ashtray. Alongside it a glass tumbler, turned upside down. And dead in the center, an empty whisky bottle weighing down a sheet of paper.
Jug ignored it. Time enough to read when he was certain that reading was all that was left to do.
He knew from long experience that when a farmer came to the end of his tether, if there were family around, he’d take himself to the barn or byre where only the beasts would see him set the shotgun barrel under his chin.
But if he were alone, then it was here on his own familiar hearth that he’d take his farewells.
So it was a cause for relief to find the kitchen empty.
You’re just letting this gloomy old place get to you, he admonished himself. I mean, why the hell would Hen choose the moment Daph Brereton’s death had so improved his life to decide to end it?
Mebbe after marking his recovery of the family home by a typically solitary celebration, he’d staggered upstairs and was lying senseless on his old dusty bed.
He shouted, “Hen! You there?”
Loud as he shouted, he couldn’t drown out the thought that Hen couldn’t have chosen to shoot himself because he didn’t have a shotgun.
This he knew because he himself had confiscated it the year after the eviction. In recent years, local police kept a very close check on gun ownership. When Hen hadn’t renewed his license, Whitby had visited him and, after listening to his catalog of grievances, had come away with the weapon.
So in the unlikely event he’d decided to kill himself, it wouldn’t have been by shooting.
And once again long experience of the traumas of rustic life projected images in the sergeant’s mind.
If not the gun, then the rope. A high-beamed barn was the favored site here. Most of these old low-ceilinged farmhouses didn’t have any vertical space deep enough for a grown man to drop into, but in some instances the situation of the stairs meant that a short rope carefully affixed to a beam across the landing would allow a determined man room to dangle into his own entrance hall.
But there was no reason for Hen to kill himself, not now, not here! his thoughts reiterated. No reason at all.
One way to be sure.
Slowly Jug Whitby lifted the latch on the inner door that opened into the hall. Slowly he pushed it open.
“Oh shit,” he said. “Oh shit shit shit shit shit!”
14
Andy Dalziel sat in the morning sunshine on the doorstep of Millstone Farm and read the note through the transparent plastic of an evidence bag.
It was written in pencil in a round, unjoined-up hand.
it were all an accident I only went there to help after Ollie had bother with the hog roast machnry and rang me to say could I give a hand.
Then Daph saw me there and we got into a row and she told me shed make sure I nivver set foot in Millstone again even if it meant she had to burn it down with her own hands and I ran at her and she fell over and banged her head and as she lay there looking up at me she laughed and said so what are you going to do now Hen Hollis? Strangle me? Everything went black in my head then and when it got light again I found Id done just that. Id strangled her. Ollie were in a right stew wanting to run for help. I said dont be daft they’ll do for us both. No one knows Ive been here. Let someone else find her theres plenty with good cause to want Daph Brereton dead like yon Ted Denham for one. Saying that made me wonder if there were any way I could point a finger at him. He always tret me like dirt.
Ollie said he thought hed gone off swimming with some kids and he knew where he left his clothes in the house. I sent him off there to fetch summat of Denhams we could leave around to fool the cops and while he were gone I dragged the body away from the hut. When Ollie came back with that fancy watch Denham wears I told him to bugger off and say he went to shelter somewhere away from the machnry because of the lightning. Then I snagged the watch on Lady Mucks clothes and headed off myself leaving her lying in the grass. How she got in the hog roast cage I don’t know unless Ollie sneaked back and put her there for some reason. But he said it werent him when I found him at Witch Cottage. I wanted to be sure hed stick to his story but the soft bugger had got himself in such a state he said he were going to see Whitby and tell him everything soon as Miss Lee got back and took the needles out. He said hed mek sure the police understood it had been an accident. I said you stupid sod how the fuck can you strangle some bugger by accident? And I felt the blackness coming over me again and I picked up one of them needles and stuck it right into his back. Didn’t mean to kill him like I didn’t really mean no harm to Daph Brereton not to start with anyway but I can see how its going to look.
All ive lived for these past years is to get Millstone back for myself and now Ive got it but for how long? They’ll lock me up for sure and mebbe they wont even let me keep Millstone if I live long enough to get out again. So fuck them all. If I cant live here at least I can die here.
Fuck you all
“Poor old sod,” said Dalziel.
Whitby looked at him in surprise, then nodded his head and repeated, “Aye, poor old sod. What do we do now, sir?”
He was in Dalziel’s hands. There’d been no thought of contacting anybody else till he’d spoken to the Fat Man.
Dragged from his bed, Dalziel’s sleep-slurred voice had said, “This had better be bad, Jug.”
But when he heard how bad it was, the slur had been replaced by a cold clarity.
“He’s dead?”
“Definite.”
“And there’s a note?”
“Aye. On the kitchen table under an empty whisky bottle.”
“Bag the note, get out of the house, wait for me.”
He’d borrowed Pet Sheldon’s car. Looking at his face, she hadn’t asked for an explanation. As he drove out of the Avalon gate, he’d met the local newsagent’s van coming in with the morning papers. He’d stopped him and helped himself.
One look at the front page of the Mid-York News was enough. Without actually stating that a formal charge had been made, Sammy Ruddlesdin was once more giving the impression that it was safe to walk the streets of Mid-Yorkshire again as DCI Pascoe, the county’s answer to Poirot, had got the titled perpetrator (and his accomplice) under lock and key.
“Oh, Pete, Pete,” groaned Dalziel. “I warned you. Ignore their shit and eventually it’ll drop off you. It’s the buggers’ praise you can never quite scrape away!”
The one good thing was that it was only the Mid-York News that had jumped the gun so dramatically and he didn’t doubt that the other papers would be only too glad of a chance to make one of their own look an arsehole. So there was still plenty of time for Pascoe to regroup. Arresting the Denhams was fine. They had, after all, admitted a serious offense. But with just a little shuffling of the facts—and Pete was a very fine shuffler!—it should be easy to present their transfer to HQ as a subtle ploy to divert the press from Sandytown so that
the local man on the spot could follow his instructions and bring the case to a satisfactory conclusion. Dan Trimble would be delighted. Case solved, full confession, perp dead, no trial. What could be more satisfactory?
“What do we do now?” he echoed Jug Whitby. “You ring Mr. Pascoe.”
“Me? I though mebbe that you…”
“No. Your patch, Jug. Your local knowledge that brought you here. Any credit going should be thine. And Mr. Pascoe’s. You’ll tell the press that you were here following Mr. Pascoe’s instructions, right? And it is right, isn’t it? ’Cos he never told you to stop looking for Hen.”
“Aye, sir, but it was you—”
“I’ve not been here, Jug. I’m in bed fast asleep. I’m a convalescent invalid, remember?”
He rose from the step and stretched himself in the sunlight.
Pascoe would be up now, he didn’t doubt, eager to get back to the Denhams, hoping—believing!—that, with a little more pressure, a little more cunning, he could get the answers that would make the headlines he had probably just read with his breakfast come true.
The news about Hen Hollis would come as a shock, then as a relief.
But it had better not come from Dalziel.
No way he could pass on the news without it sounding like a gloating I told you so!
“Which,” said the Fat Man to the unheeding sun, “I bloody well did, too!”
VOLUME THE FIFTH
Miss Heywood, I astonish you.—You hardly know what to make of me.—I see by your looks you are not used to such quick measures.
1
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
SUBJECT: farewell & festival!
Hi Cass!
My last mail from Sandytown! Like I told you after the great anticlimax, I was ready to head straight back home & immerse myself in the serene certainties of life at Willingden Farm. Ordinary—run-of-the-ruined-mill—boring—had never seemed more attractive. But Tom & Mary were so pressing—Id lived through the dark days—surely I wanted to see the dawn—that sort of thing—at least that was Tom. Mary was more—of course you want to get back to your family but I hope now we are family too—sort of—at least thats how I think of you—& Minnies really going to miss you—I know I am—but please dont feel any pressure!
Shes never said anything—but I think deep down in the middle of the night Mary may have been having nightmares that Tom was somehow mixed up in Lady Ds death—or maybe it was her own dislike & distrust of the woman making her feel guilty—& now the crisis is past—as often happens—the strain begins to show!
How could I abandon her straightaway! So I said OK—but Ive promised to be home for the Bank Holiday—if Im not there at the Willingden Country Show on Monday to see dad snapping up prizes for the Sexiest Heiffer—& mum for the most scrumptious Victoria Sponge—Ill get the gold medal for the Blackest Sheep of Family Heywood!
So Ive agreed to stay till today Saturday—for the Grand Opening of Sandytowns first ever Festival of Health. What better time & place for a wounded community to start its healing—says Tom—I think hes practicing his opening speech on me!—but he may have a point. Certainly Sandytowns showing remarkable resilience—only 4 days since they found poor Hen & already the locals have moved from shock! horror! to a kind of knowing fatalism—the Hollises a doomed clan—not marked for happiness—only Alan at the Hope & Anchor seems to have escaped the curse—maybe his ma played away! I even heard someone say—Hen always said he were born at Millstone—& no bugger—not God in His Heaven nor yon old cow at the Hall—were going to stop him dieing there!
Ive made a lot of notes—might do a little paper sometime—tragedy & the mass consciousness—not snappy enough?—OK—how about pigs & needles & two yards of rope! Sorry. You can see Im doing it too—turning tragedy into a topic.
Havent forgotten my thesis though. Combined a visit to Claras sickbed with a surreptitious interview. Godly Gordons alleged miracle cure is an even more popular topic than Hens suicide—Tom can hardly refrain from chortling with glee at his own cleverness in persuading Gord to join his team of alternatives—naturally I didnt tell him the only reason his precious healer had come to Sandytown was cos hes got the hots for me!!!! Cant help feeling flattered even tho theres no way I could fancy the guy—tho I must admit I quite like him now. Anyway—he seems to have got the message—theres been no sign of him for the past few days—I think Toms a bit worried he may not show for the festival opening—but I assured him Gord wouldnt let him down—not that kind of fellow.
Anyway—Clara is doing well—when it came down to it seems that its mainly broken bones & concussion—probably was from the start but Gords still getting all the credit locally! Could be moved now to an NHS specialist unit—but Ted Denham insists that she should stay at the Avalon—& the specialists should all come to her—his treat! Ted—as youd expect—has bounced right back from being pilloried in the News as no 1 suspect—rides into town on the Sexy Beast like Alexander the Great looking to be worshipped—which he is—everybody loves a rich young squire—who promises to be a lot more liberal with his money than dear old Daph! Hes promised Tom hell take her place in the development consortium—& fulfill all her undertakings—& more! The Festival of Health is of course Toms particular baby—but Teds first spectacular will come next week when Daphs funeral takes place. I dread to think what hes got planned for the wake! Havent seen much of Esther—but when I did the thaw begun at the hog roast continued—maybe it wasnt me in particular she disliked—just life in Daphs large shadow. No word yet of the return of the Swiss toy-boy. Maybe she thinks it wouldnt be decent to parade him till her aunts safe in the ground.
Back to Clara—not much useful there for the thesis—hoped she might have had a white tunnel experience—with Gord at the far end shouting—go back!—but all she remembers is some dream about a sweets shop—& not being able to get in! Something there for the Jungians maybe—must have a look when I get back to my books.
The cops have packed up & left the hall. Bumped into Novello before they went—or maybe she contrived to bump into me. She said—sorry—its the job. I said—yeah—mines the same—getting people to trust me—difference is—if I let them down—Ive failed—
Unforgiving or what!
Saw Andy Dalziel in the pub. He asked me how I felt about things. I said I was glad it was all over—wasnt he? He said being glad wasnt part of the job description. Not sure what he meant. Need to think about it. Hes on his way too—after the weekend. Says whatever else all the excitement did—its got him back on his feet & hes looking forward to being back on the job again in a few weeks. I said—Mr Pascoe will be pleased to hear that—& he said—you reckon?—
Funny thing about Mr Deal—whatever he says—no matter it sounds dead ordinary—it leaves you listening to the echoes.
Minnie has just come in to tell me its time for the off! Shes sitting on my bed staring at me accusingly. I think she takes me going home after the opening as a personal affront. Also I think shes got a whiff of whats going on between Uncle Sid & the bart. Not surprising—like Ive said before—if I was head of MI5—Id get Min on the books straightaway! Happily she met George when he drove me back to Kyoto—& it was love at first sight! Shes decided if I wont be her sis-in-law by marrying Sid—shell do it the other way—by marrying George! Only compensation for me leaving her after the opening is that George is coming to pick me up!
Sids back in London—dont know if hell show today or not—be interesting to see what the future holds for the Odd Couple now that Teds stinking rich. Funny thing love. Poetry says it stays fixed even when everything around it changes. Not my observation. Its a creature of circumstance. All it needs is a handy pine tree & an even handier ex-best-mate—& there it goes! Still debating louse Liams penitent letter. Hope you & the mahogany hunk prove exceptions to the rule—& stay fixed—& eventually settle down in a nice little honeysuckle covered cottage in Willingden!
Got to go or Mins go
ing to explode.
Next one from home!
Love
Charley xxx
2
Right, Mildred. This is the last time you and me are going to speak. Always sad to say good-bye, but let’s face up to it, this thing between us has run its course. Funny how things work out; first time I set eyes on thee, I thought, no way you’ll ever catch me whispering sweet nothings into that thing’s ear! Now I’m feeling like I’m going to miss you.
That’s why it’s time to end it, of course. I’ve got to admit I learned to enjoy it, but it’s too bloody dangerous to keep on with, as the vicar said to the verger’s wife as she pulled on his bell rope afore morning service. There’s stuff on here I don’t want any other bugger to hear—stuff I don’t much want to hear again myself!
So last time, last thoughts, last things.
All packed up and gone now, Pete and Wieldy and the rest of the whole traveling circus. Wasn’t till they’d all gone that I realized how much I were going to miss them. All this convalescing stuff’s fine, but I reckon if old Daph hadn’t got herself topped, with everything that followed, and I hadn’t got myself involved like I did, then likely I’d have taken another three weeks at least to get to where I am now.
Cap took a bit of persuading when she came down to see me on Thursday. Started reading the riot act when I said I’d handed in me notice and I was heading back home at the weekend. In the end I had to push her on the bed and show her how much better I was. I’m trying to think of Pet as a training session, getting me ready for the serious stuff again. Funny, ain’t it? Me looking for ways of justifying what I know were a rotten thing to do by any standards. At least Pet can claim she did it out of love—though mebbe there was also a bit of payback for Fester letting himself be tempted by the thrill of the Bannerjee Jump! Pet had to know about that. Nowt happens in these places that a good matron doesn’t know about!
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