‘Either sister could pay in or withdraw. About four months ago, larger amounts started to be paid in. Five hundred, a thousand on one occasion. In total nearly seven thousand pounds. Ellen apparently said she’s sold off a bit more land and some redundant farm machinery, but when Diane mentioned that to Daphne Tailor, she didn’t know anything about it. So she came to me and showed me the account.’
‘How was the money paid in?’
‘Cash and at several different branches.’
Mac frowned. ‘So, where was she getting it?’
‘It’s the first anomaly we’ve found. It might be innocent. She might have been selling stuff off and not telling the in-laws. From what I’ve seen of the Tailor’s they are quite a controlling bunch. I’ve arranged to speak to Terry Bridger, the farm worker who comes in part time to help out. We interviewed him yesterday but this information about the bank account didn’t come in until last night. Thought you might want to tag along. I figure if anyone might notice missing equipment or more land being sold, it’ll be him.’
‘From the summer of 1939,’ William Trent wrote, ‘the government began to recruit hundreds of amateur radio enthusiasts to listen out for German transmission. Most of them were drawn from the ranks of The Radio Society of Great Britain, headed by a man called Arthur Watts. They were organized into cells by the Radio Security Service and dubbed Voluntary Interceptors …’
William broke off, unable to think how to finish the sentence or even if it required more words. He couldn’t seem to concentrate this morning.
He looked across his desk at the scatter of journals and handwritten notes and World War Two publications. The Penrose, Home Guard Manual of Camouflage and The Partisan Leader’s Handbook by Major Colonel Gubbins, all original editions and made even more extraordinary by the marginal notes made by their original owners. On any other day he would have been excited by just being able to handle such authenticity. To read and touch such genuine history, but today he couldn’t seem to concentrate.
He knew it was useless to go on today and so he put down his pen and picked up the telephone.
She answered on the fourth ring. ‘Vera,’ he said. ‘I’m so glad to have caught you. How are you today?’
She told him that she was fine, but he could hear that her voice was flat and tired. He knew she was grieving for Ellen, much as he was – perhaps even more, William thought.
‘Vera, I’m so sorry. I miss her too. I wish …’
What did he wish? That time could be turned back? That he could stop it in its tracks and take the gun away?
‘I wondered,’ he said, ‘if you’d maybe changed your mind. If—’
Her response was cold. No, she told him. The answer is still no. She would not allow him, as she put it, to trade upon the lives and deaths of others. He’d already had more than she’d been happy to provide and she would do no more.
William sighed, was about to try again when the phone went dead and he realized she had cut him off.
‘Damn. Stupid, stubborn bloody woman.’ He replaced the receiver on his side of the conversation and thought about what he should do. Hopefully, she’d come round. If not, well, he would have to see.
William Trent grabbed his coat and set out for his usual walk. Although it pained him now, carrying such memories as it did, he couldn’t seem to break the habit. He took with him one of the journals he was currently reading and annotating. This one had been a real find, unusual and significant in amongst the mess of soppy letters and auntie’s hedgerow jam recipes he’d been working through so far, though he’d done so just as assiduously, knowing that such anecdotes sold books as surely as the more dramatic discoveries he hoped this little diary would lead him on to. Vera too, if only she would play ball. It was one thing having this journal and the other odds and ends Ellen had quietly borrowed for him, but unless he had formal permission to make use of them, his research would be all for nothing.
William resented that. Enormously.
He hoped, actually that this material might be the substance for a second book, one much more focused on the secrets and lies and misdirection perpetrated in 1940 and ’41 which so fascinated him.
The morning was cool and William was grateful for his heavier jacket. His habitual Harris tweed, thornproof and windproof and the colours of earth and moss. She had so loved natural things, William thought, recalling the giver of this particular jacket. Both of the important women in his life had been like that though. Feeling an affinity with the natural world that William himself sought but never quite succeeded in emulating. And both were now gone.
William paused ten minutes or so into his walk and leant upon a farm gate looking into a field where he’d seen hares on a few previous occasions. Ellen had loved the harum-scarum flighty creatures and they’d watched them together on several occasions. There were sheep in the field now, no sign of anything even vaguely hare-like. But then, he’d never been the first to spot them, that had always been Ellen. She’d seemed to have an affinity for them, feeling for where they might be even before they became visible and little Megan seemed to have inherited her mother’s gift.
He felt sorry for the children. Sorry for himself. He wasn’t sure if he felt sorry for Ellen. William found that he’d not yet decided about that one and he knew himself well enough to know that his sympathy for Megan and Jebediah would also fade until only the regret for his own loss would remain. William had few illusions about his own capacity for love in the long term.
Giving up on the hares, he opened the journal and read a now familiar entry. It seemed to William that the writer had William’s own struggle. That desire to connect and yet that inability to do so. Lodged in the countryside, the writer sought to use the language of his location. It sounded awkward, to William. Forced. He guessed perhaps that was because the man was uncomfortable with what he had to do and was also acutely aware that he should not have been making a record of any of it. Vera had no idea he had this book, though it was only a matter of time before she realized, he supposed. He knew Ellen had felt bad about borrowing it and the last time he had seen her she had begged him to give it back to her so she could return it, secretly, to Vera.
‘I have sown the seeds,’ the writer stated. ‘I doubt I will be here when they are ready for harvest. I doubt I will even hear of the outcome and have no way of knowing if the harvest will be a good one or one worthy of burning. But it is done, now. The lies will spread like blight and I just have to hope that it will have all been worthwhile.’
We all have those moments, William thought. When you look at what you’ve done and pray, even if you don’t believe in any kind of god, that you’ve not completely fouled things up. That your judgement was sound.
He walked on until he came to that point on the ridge that looked down on the farmhouse. So familiar to him now from all the times he’d sat up there. He sat now and watched the somewhat desultory activity in the yard below. He guessed the forensic teams would have finished their prodding and scraping and prying and the two officers he glimpsed as they walked across the gravel were all that remained of the police presence. Soon, they too would leave and the house would settle into a passive and unsatisfactory silence. It was not a house that was made for silence; it should, he thought, be filled with noise and bustle and activity. He had been oddly aware, when he’d visited Ellen, especially when the children had been absent, of that odd, hollow feeling to the place. As though the house craved the big families and the cook and the gangs of farm workers that the old land would have supported when this had been the main house on the Glebe Farm. He’d done some research and found that the farmhouse, as it existed now, was just one wing of a much larger structure. That what was now an outbuilding used for storage had once been attached to the main shell of the house. He suspected that the holding of land once related to this farm would have been at least equal to that of the Breed Estate, though there’d been no time to follow up on his theories, all his research time currently being devoted
to the books and now to the consultancy work he was doing for the de Freitases. Work he had Ellen to thank for.
The day had still not warmed and the air had an autumnal sharpness to it. The ground beneath him began to feel uncomfortably damp as the chill worked its way through his clothes. Awkwardly, feeling his age in his joints and bones, William struggled to his feet and stretched, then moved back on to the main path.
‘It’s a bad business, that.’
William turned sharply, startled by the voice, recognition following only seconds after. He nodded. The farmer stood on the path, dog at his side, shotgun broken over his arm. They had spoken a couple of times before when William had met him on the path.
‘It is,’ he agreed. ‘Very sad. I hear the children found her.’
The other man nodded. ‘Not something they’ll forget in a hurry. If the Tailors have any sense left in their heads, they’ll sell up and get rid.’
‘You think so?’
‘Wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t. Times change, there’s no one left to carry on so they should give it best. No shame in that.’
William decided that the easiest thing was to nod. He couldn’t see Ellen’s mother-in-law agreeing to that. She was a tough old bird and not likely to give in to anything, no matter how sensible, that she didn’t want to.
The farmer wished him a good morning, called the dog to heel and moved on. William stood and watched them walk away, deciding that he would cut his walk short and turn back towards the cottage in part because his knees were now chilled and stiff from sitting and in part because should he start to walk in the same direction as the farmer, he might have to make conversation. William was in no mood for that.
ELEVEN
Terry Bridger was somehow younger than Mac had imagined. He’d assumed the man who had also worked for Ellen’s husband would be older, more experienced. Instead, he found himself confronted by a very nervous young man in his mid-twenties who still lived with his parents and sister in what looked like another farm cottage.
‘You found anything yet,’ Terry asked. ‘Like, who killed her?’
‘Nothing yet,’ Kendall told him. ‘But we’ve got a few questions to ask you.’
‘I told you all I know. I saw her two days ago, was due to go over again today. I work on the Breed Estate Mondays and Wednesdays and do a bit here and there on the weekends down the Lamb.’
‘The Lamb?’ Mac asked.
‘The pub down the village. Can’t get anything full time for love nor money. Not in farming. No one can afford full-time help.’
‘Terry, did Ellen sell any more of the land off lately? Any extra equipment? Any machinery?’
Terry stared at him as though processing the words and not quite getting to grips with the meaning. ‘Lately?’ he said finally.
‘This past year.’
Terry frowned. ‘Not that I know about. Not that she’d said to me.’
‘And you’d have known?’
Terry laughed suddenly. ‘She’d got a dozen showy-looking sheep and that market garden and some chickens, just what kind of equipment you think she needs for that? Biggest thing we got left was a petrol-driven rotavator we used to prep the land for sowing. She used that green manure stuff over winter and then straw and chicken shit. We left it out to weather over winter and rotavated it in come spring. We did a four-way rotation she’d found in some old book somewhere. Worked though, didn’t it. For all they told her she was a stupid idiot who didn’t know nothing about growing. She bloody well made it work.’
‘Who said she was an idiot?’ Mac asked.
Terry looked uncomfortable. ‘Some of the locals,’ he said finally ‘and that family of Jeb’s. Daphne Tailor was always on at her, expecting her to fail.’
‘You heard this for yourself?’ Mac asked. ‘Or is it just local gossip?’
Terry laughed harshly. ‘I saw that old witch arguing with her. Heard her too. Daphne and the brother, they thought the land was theirs and the house too. You should have heard them at it.’
Interesting, Mac thought. The opposite of what Frank had been told, it seemed. ‘What did the Tailors want her to do, then?’
‘Clear off back to where she came from,’ Terry said. ‘But Daphne didn’t want her to take the kids away with her. Said she was the grandmother and the kids were part of her family. Well, you can imagine what Ellen said to that!’ He laughed at the memory of it. ‘I reckon Daphne didn’t know what hit her by the time Ellen had done.’
‘And did the animosity continue?’ Mac asked.
Terry frowned. ‘I reckon this last year or so it settled. Ray and his wife emigrated and that took some of the pressure off. Daphne saw Ellen was determined to make a go of things and was actually making a success and so she got off her back most of the time. So I reckon it settled.’
He frowned and Mac got the impression that he was close to tears. ‘I liked her a lot,’ Terry said. ‘She was a good person. Kind, you know?’
‘And did she happen to mention maybe coming into some money? Maybe a lottery win or something?’ Kendall asked.
Terry looked surprised. ‘She thought the lottery was a mug’s game,’ he said. ‘Said she didn’t have money to waste on that sort of thing. She never mentioned anything else.’
He was clearly curious about the line of questioning and looked from one to the other, waiting for an explanation. He was to be disappointed. Mac and Kendall left shortly after.
‘Interesting what he said about the family,’ Kendall said as they drove away.
‘It is, but someone listening in to a family argument can often get the wrong end of the stick. Worth talking to Daphne Tailor again though at some point. Although it’s a bit of a stretch from believing your daughter-in-law might not be capable of running a farm and wanting to blow her head off.’
‘True,’ Kendall agreed. ‘So on to our Mr Trent, next, I suppose.’
They arrived at Stone End just as William Trent was crossing the stile from the footpath. He didn’t look happy to see them.
‘Been for a walk, Mr Trent?’
‘It’s not against the law, so far as I know, Inspector. I suppose you’d better come inside.’
He led them through to the room Mac and Yolanda had been in before. This time, Mac took more notice of his surroundings. He spotted the photograph that Yolanda had mentioned. William Trent, only a few years younger, standing beside a pretty woman. They were both dressed up as though for a wedding or some other special occasion and while the woman smiled straight out at the photographer, William Trent’s gaze was fixed upon her and the expression on his face was, as Yolanda had said, utterly focused and utterly loving.
William Trent saw him looking and scowled. ‘What do you want, Inspector?’
‘Why did you follow my sergeant the other day? I saw you at the farm. You were standing up on the ridge.’
‘What if I was? I went for a walk, that’s all. The path leads that way.’
‘There are several paths leading in several different directions,’ Mac countered.
William Trent shrugged. ‘I went for a walk,’ he said. ‘I like to walk that way. I do it a lot.’
‘And did you go that way the day Ellen was killed?’ Kendall asked.
‘What are you suggesting?’ William Trent’s face flushed and then as swiftly paled.
‘That you may have seen something, or someone,’ Kendall said blandly. ‘It’s a possibility, don’t you think?’
‘I walked that way in the early morning. Long before she was killed. I saw no one.’
‘And today?’
Trent scowled again. ‘A farmer. I think his name is Jenkins or something. Farms down the way from Ellen’s place. He was out with his dog, after rabbits I presume.’
‘You presume?’
‘Because he had his shotgun with him. Like half the population round here. I, on the other hand, don’t own a gun.’
‘Can you shoot?’
‘Any fool can point and pull the trigg
er. What kind of damn stupid question is that?’
‘How would you characterize your relationship with Ellen Tailor?’ Mac questioned.
‘A friend, a very dear friend. I shall miss her terribly. Satisfied?’ Trent made a move towards the door as though to usher them out but neither Mac nor Kendall moved.
‘Would she have confided in you?’
‘About some things perhaps. Look, I have work to do. I’d like you to go.’
‘About money, perhaps?’
‘Money? I don’t know. I know it was tight, but that’s true for most of us.’
‘For you too?’
‘None of your dammed business. I have a decent pension and I top it up with writing and bits of other work.’
‘Like consulting for the de Freitases at Iconograph. I understand Ellen introduced you.’
‘Like that, yes. And yes, she did.’
‘Had Ellen had any unusual expenses lately? Anything she might want extra money for?’
‘I don’t know.’ Trent waved his hand impatiently. ‘School uniforms and stuff for the children at the start of term, I suppose. She didn’t say.’
‘Did she say if she had plans for raising money? Maybe by selling more of the land, some other assets?’
‘For the school uniforms?’ Trent laughed. ‘Inspector, I know these things are expensive, but—’
Mac abandoned that line of questioning and picked up on what Terry Bridger, the farm worker had told them. ‘How would you say Ellen got along with her in-laws?’
Trent laughed then and for the first time there was no tension in either his laughter or his expression. This, it seemed was an easy one to answer.
‘She couldn’t stand Daphne or the rest of the clan,’ he said. ‘But she hid it well, said you had to go along to get along and that the children had the right to have a family and as she couldn’t really offer one—’
‘There was only Ellen and her sister.’
Trent nodded. ‘They were very close. I think there’s an aunt and a cousin or two, but Ellen didn’t mention them much. She said that after her parents died the relatives helped out for a time but made it very clear that the girls would be on their own in the long term, so Ellen and Diane fended for themselves. They both worked and studied and got a bit of financial help from some government fund or something. When Ellen went to university she moved into a shared house and moved her sister in with her. She said it was stressful, but that they managed.’
Forgotten Voices Page 7
