Threadbare

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  “Two questions, two answers, two dead – one hundred percent. Go to the top of the bloody class.”

  Chapter Nine

  The farmyard looked deserted as they walked through the gates. A building constructed of breeze blocks and rust-patterned corrugated sheets faced them. There was a general air of neglect. Two border collies barked repeatedly, the sound amplified by the metal sided building. Quinn and April paused, ensuring the dogs were secure. Reassured, they watched momentarily as the dogs paced within the confines of the large mesh kennel deliberately positioned to be facing the gate. Each dog was eager to get closer to the strangers. Chickens moved along the edge of the barn, ignorant of the intrusion and commotion as they scratched the dampened soil before pecking the soft ground. April walked over to the battered Toyota pick-up and made a note of the registration. The curtain in a window of the whitewashed farmhouse moved to one side; a face appeared briefly. Seconds later the door to the farmhouse opened and a woman appeared; her facial expression was firm and yet puzzled.

  “Can I help you?” Her voice was as sharp and threatening as the dogs.

  Quinn already had his warrant card ready and held it up for her to see. “Sorry for this intrusion. Mrs Bostock?” He waited to see the recognition dawn on her face as she read the card before continuing. “DC Quinn and this is DS Richmond. I think you know why we’re here.”

  She took the warrant card and held it closer before inspecting the photograph and then Quinn. “Look too young to be in the police, lad. You sure your mother knows you’re out?”

  Quinn was about to answer when he noticed the hint of a smile.

  “Come in, DC Quinn. Is she coming in too? Tell her the pick-up’s not for sale.” She winked. “Ted’s in the kitchen. All the kerfuffle meant he’s missed his lunch and he’s running late. He’s not happy, mind he never is these days what with Brexit and grants, environmental issues. I could go on!”

  Quinn waved at April. “Bark’s worse than her bite. Quite a sense of humour actually. Think she likes men in uniform.” He raised his eyebrows and chuckled.

  “You’re not in uniform, Quinn, and she’s old enough to be my mother!”

  “Sorry, yes. Good point.”

  “He’ll only be a minute, got sheep to check in the top fields what with all this rustling going on. The other week our neighbour had four slaughtered not half a mile from the farm. Brass necked these people and probably dangerous too. I shouldn’t say this but I will, you people don’t do much. You can’t even find Peterson’s stolen car for goodness sake … mind, in my opinion it’s better off not being found. Bloody eyesore. I’m making him a brew, do you two want one? Sit in the lounge.” She opened the door to the left of the hall.

  “As you can imagine, Mrs Bostock, we have much to do … cars and killers to catch.” He could not hide his sarcasm. “Thank you but no.”

  At that moment Ted Bostock came in, mug in hand.

  Bostock recalled the discovery of Peterson’s body in a matter of fact way. There was neither empathy nor sorrow in his tone considering they had known each other for twenty plus years.

  “Why did you go to the cottage this morning, Mr Bostock?”

  “Rent. It was due last week and he asked for a week’s grace. Always skint – that’s why his car was off the road most of the time, cluttering my bloody yard. Liked a flutter on the horses. Always said he had a system but they all say that. Never see a poor bookie but know plenty of skint gamblers. Hard worker though and was frightened of nothing or nobody.”

  “Just explain how you found him please, Mr Bostock.”

  He emptied his mug and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “The cottage door was open when I arrived; open as in ajar which seemed strange as it had been warm but not that warm and so I called his name. There was no answer so I took a look around the outside first, thinking he might be in the garden or yard. There was nobody about. I went in. His door was never locked and if it were, the key was always under the mat. There was nobody in the kitchen so I went through into the hall. I could see his legs sticking out from the understairs cupboard. It was dark under there but I could see he had some blood on his head and neck and I thought that he’d banged his head. There was a pulse and he seemed to hear me, but didn’t respond. His left foot was constantly twitching. Said nothing. You hear all these things about strokes and the like. I immediately rang for an ambulance. Only after I’d made the call did I see the bolt gun. I knew money was tight but not enough to …”

  For the first time April saw some emotion that might be interpreted as guilt.

  “If I hadn’t pushed for payment he might still be here.” Bostock looked at each officer in turn as if searching for some consolation. None came. “He wasn’t dead. Those things are meant to stun a beast but with a human? When the paramedic arrived, I knew by then that he was dead. His foot stopped moving. There seemed to be nothing.”

  “Did anyone take your prints and a DNA swab to eliminate you from the enquiry that’s taking place?”

  Bostock nodded.

  “Have you seen the captive bolt gun before or did you know of its existence?”

  “No, don’t know why he’d have one. If we ever had to dispose of an injured animal or one of the dogs, we wouldn’t involve the vet. We’d shoot it, put it out of its misery, like.”

  “And simply bury it?”

  “It’s all classed as fallen stock. You’re not supposed to but you can with horses. But we do bury dogs and the very young lambs. The main animals over a certain age have passports and have to be accounted for as they’d be entering the food chain. What with mad cow disease and foot and mouth you have to follow strict rules for everyone’s sake and that’s that. No, the big stuff doesn’t stay on the farm. We’d call for the carcass to be collected. That’s usually a Thursday when they come so I wrap it and leave it in a certain spot by the road, in a container to keep wild animals from eating it. Then either the knacker comes or the maggot farm, we just let them know. The animals are tagged so they know the history. If we had to destroy a beast and we needed to do it quickly we wouldn’t fanny about with a captive bolt. I’m surprised Sam did as he has two guns, a .22 and a shotgun, in the house.”

  “Do you know where he kept them?”

  “They should be in a gun safe and they should be registered but Sam was old school. Probably under his bed or even in the boot of hi …” Bostock paused, realising what he had said. “Something else, too. He knew how quick a shotgun would be if he wanted to top hisself. A bolt gun really only stuns the beast. You then have to pith it … you stick a rod through the hole you’ve made and jiggle it about like. Bloody hard to do to yourself after you’ve put the bolt gun to your head!”

  Quinn stood, made his excuses and left. The thought of pithing turned his stomach but his immediate excuse was that he needed to find the guns. He would run back to the cottage and no matter what the aroma he enjoyed deep gulps of air. They needed to discover if the firearms were there. The same officer stood by the gate and smiled on seeing Quinn, lifting the tape in anticipation. The door was still open and he was greeted by the CSI Manager.

  “Two guns are reportedly stored somewhere in the house. Not sure if they’ll be in a gun safe. The farmer suggested looking under the bed!” Quinn pulled a face, spread his hands and raised his shoulders to convey his thoughts on the matter.

  “We have one shotgun positioned on the top of the kitchen cabinets near the door. Box of cartridges too but as yet we haven’t seen another gun.”

  ***

  Bostock showed April to the door. “Thank you. We may need to chat again, Mr Bostock, but at the moment we’ll leave it there.” She smiled but merely received a nod in response.

  “Give us notice. Can’t be hanging around waiting and then you don’t turn up.”

  She walked across the cobbled yard; the dogs protested at her presence but soon were silenced by Bostock and she heard the door slam.

  “Christ, what did he go and do that for, the daft bas
tard?” It was as if he were talking to himself but he looked directly at his wife. There was silence.

  “I should have told them, Ted, it might be vital.”

  “And it might not. You just keep that mouth of yours closed. He was a daft bastard at times, Peterson. I warned him, no I told him but he had to do everything his way. You sow the wind and reap the whirlwind. How many people do we see around the farm and the farm lanes? We’re keeping a bloody eye out for these bloody rustlers so we take note of more now than we normally would. You said he seemed nice enough.”

  Belinda Bostock wiped her sweating hands on her apron. “He did but …” She paused again. “He was asking for Peterson. Said something about his missing car. I thought he was from the police, a plain clothes officer even though he seemed too old so that’s why I checked Quinn’s ID thoroughly and whatever her name was, but that was before all of this happened, his death like. Could he …? Was it just as you told them, Ted?”

  “That’s for me to know and them to find out. I’m off checking the top fields so just keep that shut.” He touched her lips. “Especially when you’re having your hair done!”

  She nodded, knowing she often repeated things there she should not. She could not help herself.

  ***

  As Quinn left Peterson’s, he saw April coming up the road. They met by the car. “We’ll wait for Forensics to do what they do,” April suggested. “Need to find that missing Vauxhall.”

  “Anything else from Bostock?” Quinn asked as he opened the car door.

  “He told me that they’d use a vet for most animals that needed putting down and it was only in extreme circumstances that Peterson would do it.”

  Quinn looked across. “If they could save money, I’m sure they would take the cheaper route.”

  “You went a funny shade in there. Were you alright?”

  “I’m a sensitive soul, ma’am.”

  “For a man who’d just found an old colleague and tenant dead from possible suicide, he wasn’t really in a state of shock. Yes, he showed some distress but to come in and eat lunch especially after seeing what he’d seen … there may be more to him than meets the eye.”

  “Butchers, ma’am, they’ve a switch inside their heads that must be attached to that part of the brain that controls compassion, sensitivity, empathy and they can distance themselves. How else could you spend part or all of your day killing, surrounded by the sound and smell of death and then go home without a second thought and eat your tea? Farmers have a degree of that too but in a different way. They care so much for their animals they don’t want them to suffer and can, if necessary, kill without hesitation, not for killing’s sake but out of compassion. Maybe his switch isn’t as general as the others and that’s what Bostock did, he just flicked his particular switch.”

  Quinn said nothing else for a moment before turning to April. “Bostock or Peterson?” He then turned and stared out across the fields and watched the sheep clustered near a large oak tree.

  April observed his expression. Maybe Quinn had a point.

  ***

  DC Harry Nixon stared at the collected snippets of information held to the whiteboard by small, coloured magnets. It was clear Cyril was not on the case as there was no logic to the colours. He would have ensured that separate information or photographs would be held by the same coloured magnet. He studied the photograph of the thick strand of material that had been found in the box containing the snake. It was set against a small ruler. Beneath was a description: Warp or weft from an Axminster carpet or rug. Testing for colour shows leaching of brown dye – dye used pre-1973. Probably from a worn area. Both ends cut using a sharp knife. He tapped the photograph and made a note before letting his gaze fall on the next image, the collection of five blank .22 brass cartridges. These were small, crimped at the end and badly tarnished as if they had been in the box for some time.

  He made a call to a friend in firearms and after pleasantries posed the question concerning the effectiveness of blank cartridges after long storage. He was amazed to learn that ammunition did not really have a shelf life as it was dependent on how it was stored and could realistically last decades – a closed, airtight ammunition box kept in the dry was as good as it got.

  “How dangerous are they as they are, Spud?” Nixon used the man’s nickname.

  “People have died putting a gun containing a blank to their head. The superheated gas is forced down the barrel. There’s the famous case of the actor putting a Magnum to his head thinking he was safe and that he was having a laugh. The pressure penetrated his skull sending fragments of bone into his brain. Harry, never underestimate the power of gunpowder.”

  “Thanks, Spud. I owe you a beer.”

  Nixon carried on reading the forensic results taken from the container. It appeared that two further cartridges had been stored, owing to the cylindrical staining to the bottom of the box. It had also held a larger item and there was clear evidence of minute rust and oil deposits, deposits that matched the oil in the small bottle, plus some traces of hardwood fragments found to the sharp lip of the box. It had once held a weapon of some kind but what and when it was removed was at this stage still unknown.

  ***

  The CSI had made pleasing progress at Peterson’s house. The second gun had not been located but an additional box of cartridges had. If he owned a gun safe it certainly was not within the four walls.

  During the routine close inspection of the floor their attention was drawn to the worn patch of carpet situated between the chair and the television.

  “This carpet must be donkey’s years old. It’s certainly like my granny used to have. She too had a gap around the edge and most weeks, until she was well in her eighties, she polished on her hands and knees.” The CSI looked at her colleague who took a few samples from the balding patch before slipping them into plastic envelopes, noting the photographic reference and the room co-ordinate.

  “This character was nothing like your granny. You could plant spuds in the crap that’s around the edge of this room. Never seen a brush nor broom for some time. Mind you, that helps us.”

  ***

  Owen put his head round the door to Cyril’s office. It seemed to hold his very DNA, and in some ways he found that comforting. However, he was surprised that Cyril had not been in touch, not thinking being on his honeymoon would matter but maybe he was wrong. He had noticed many positive changes in his boss’s demeanour. He placed the beautifully wrapped box on his blotter pad, a pad Cyril had rescued from Newby Wiske, the old Police Headquarters before they transferred to a purpose-built station in Northallerton.

  DC Shakti tapped him on the shoulder. “Apple for the teacher? Missing him, sir?”

  Owen turned. “Goodness, yes.” The word sir swam in his head for a moment. He had always been Owen when he was a sergeant but now it was to be sir! Owen raised his eyebrows. “Like toothache, Shakti.” They both laughed. “Our wedding gift; wanted it to be a surprise when he gets back, Hannah’s idea.”

  Shakti smiled. “A woman’s touch, sir. Is that a new suit and tie?” She did not wait for the answer. “Very smart, goes with the new position. Shoes shiny too. Bennett has rubbed off on you.”

  “You can’t sit in a hot bath long before your skin turns pink and wrinkly!” Owen said as he turned to walk back to his desk.

  Shakti frowned trying to understand the analogy. “Right, yes, wrinkly, pink. If you say so, sir.”

  Owen wanted his desk to remain in its position for the time being; some things he did not want to change immediately as he enjoyed being amongst the team. He fished into the mug for a sweet, letting his fingers fumble through the empty wrappers until he found one. There was something about Uncle Joe’s Mint Balls that he liked, probably the sugar. He had a meeting within the hour and he needed to get up to speed; he called in the team and April was to lead. Although he had only taken a day out, he felt disadvantaged. He had read the reports and case notes and he was familiar with developments in
both cases, but new forensic evidence was coming in all the time and that had to be assessed and evaluated.

  Owen was the last person coming into the briefing, holding his Harrogate Festivals mug. Although he had reluctantly moved up another rung on the professional ladder he had not changed, and after some thought considering his present team, he should not. He was just the same dog but with a different name, and after all, if things were not broken, they did not need fixing! To compound that thought his mug still seemed to be leaking as droplets of tea splashed down the lower part of his suit jacket onto the lower leg of his trousers before occasionally hitting the floor – it was ever thus. As he entered the chatting stopped and a light ripple of applause took over momentarily. He raised his mug and smiled. “Cheers everyone.”

  April had set his place next to her and the necessary paperwork was laid out neatly. She looked at Owen who smiled, a signal for her to start.

  “There’s a common thread to Lyons’s death and that of his carer, Perry, and that of the latest death, Peterson. It might only at this stage be cotton thin but it’s a strange coincidence. Nixon has the details.”

  Harry picked up the remote and the blue screen saver displaying the North Yorkshire Police logo vanished to be replaced by a photograph of the ammunition tin found in Lyons’s shed. “As you can see it contains a number of items. You’ll of course all be familiar with those. It was suggested by Forensics that it may well have held a firearm of some type. Now look at this.” He brought the second photograph to the screen. “This is the weapon found next to Peterson. It’s a Coles and Shelvoke Cash captive bolt gun. You can see that written here in block capitals. Below that should be a serial number but it’s been ground off at some point in its history. I’m assured that has not been done recently. You’ll also note the initials RSPCA and the manufacturer’s name and their patents. This one was made in Birmingham.”

  The next picture followed. “This is the fired blank cartridge removed from the gun. As you will detect it is identical to those found at Lyons’s house. We’re assuming, therefore, that this once belonged in that box. Considering this item would be vital equipment to the slaughterman’s trade, we can assume that it belonged to Lyons. What we need to know is when and how it found its way into Peterson’s possession. We’ve asked the owner of the cottage, a farmer by the name of Bostock, if he knew Lyons or whether he’d been seen near or around the farm. It’ll be some time before we can determine, using touch DNA testing, whether either visited each other’s property so we have to make rational judgements.”