Authors: Rebecca Tope
‘Badgers don’t give TB to cows,’ she snarled
into his face. ‘That’s just stupid. I would have thought you’d have more sense than to believe that rubbish.’
‘Oh and you know all about it, do you?’
‘More than you do.’ She shook with the passion of her certainty, and the thrill of telling Mr Hillcock, the boss, just what she thought.
But he didn’t look as if he was listening. He seemed to be concentrating on something inside his own head, his eyes still fixed on hers, but flickering now. His mouth even twitched at the sides in a tiny smile that wasn’t friendly or forgiving, but spoke of a connection that gave him pause.
‘How was I to know it was yours?’ he repeated, more quietly. ‘How do we ever know what’s ours?’ he added, more obscurely. She knew then he’d regained mastery of himself; he wouldn’t hurt her now. And she realised too that she no longer wanted to hurt him, either. The atmosphere had become too terribly sad for the trivia of fisticuffs. She pulled right away from him, and he let her go.
‘I’ll never forgive you,’ she choked. ‘I
loved
Bodgy. I rescued him from the road when a car hit him and broke his leg. I’ve had him for months.’
‘Did your father know about it?’
‘Of course he did.’ She was defiant again, her chin jutting forward. ‘And he told me not
to tell you. You didn’t know half of what went on down at the cottages.’ She was taunting him, backing away up the steps out of the parlour well, knowing she was beyond his reach.
He lifted one arm, hand in a fist. ‘Go away, little girl,’ he shouted at her. ‘Get out of my sight. I hope I never have to see you again.’
It was after nine that evening when Lilah drove quietly along the road to Dunsworthy and left her car on the grass verge before the farm entrance. She’d brought a torch with her and used it to negotiate the dark and treacherous way to the O’Farrells’ cottage.
The girl, Abigail, opened the door to her, peering out through a gap of a few inches before slowly moving back to admit her. Cuddled against her chest was a rabbit, the
browny-grey
fur suggesting it was, or had been, wild. ‘What d’you want?’ she demanded. There were smudges on her face, betraying a recent bout of weeping.
‘I came to see how you’re getting on, that’s all,’ Lilah reassured her, in a voice deliberately sweet and chirpy. Abigail stroked the rabbit and said nothing. Lilah tried a more serious tack. ‘My dad was murdered a few years ago, you know,’ she confided. ‘I’ve got some idea of how you must be feeling.’
‘I don’t
think
so,’ snapped the girl. ‘Not after what’s happened here today.’
Lilah’s blood congealed. Surely nobody else had been killed? It was her own terrible experience that murders tended not to come singly.
‘What?’
Abigail scowled at her. ‘Your precious boyfriend shot my badger,’ she burst out, tears welling.
Lilah could feel an answering hysteria. ‘What?’ was all she could repeat.
But Abigail had no intention of telling the story again. It had been bad enough trying to get her mother to listen quietly, without bleating about upsetting Gordon and getting them thrown out of the house. She couldn’t hope for much understanding from the murderer’s girlfriend.
They were inching their way towards the living room. Lilah wondered where Heather was, and why she hadn’t come to see who was visiting at that time of night. ‘Where’s your mum?’ she asked desperately. ‘You’re not here on your own, are you?’
Abigail made a scornful sound and pushed open the living room door. ‘Mum, there’s someone to see you.’
Lilah watched Heather O’Farrell lift her head and focus slowly on her face. She saw the lack of understanding. ‘Hello, Mrs O’Farrell,’ she said.
‘You know me – I’m Gordon’s girlfriend. We’ve seen each other once or twice. I gather there’s been more trouble here today?’
The woman shook her head slowly. ‘That was Abby’s fault. Her badger got out and went up to the farmyard. Gordon shot it. You can’t blame him. He didn’t know it was hers.’
‘That’s awful,’ Lilah sympathised readily. ‘Horrible things seem to all happen at once, don’t they?’ she went on clumsily. ‘Actually, I came to say how sorry I am about Sean.’ She looked round for Abigail, but the girl wasn’t there. Footsteps thumped up the stairs. ‘She seems to have a way with animals,’ Lilah went on. ‘That looked like a wild rabbit.’
‘Rabbits, hedgehogs, squirrels – her’s a proper little Gerald Durrell.’ Heather waved a vague hand towards the back wall of the room. ‘But the badger was the favourite. Her be ever so upset about it.’
Lilah dimly understood how grief for the animal would get entwined with that for her father, the two losses adding up to more than double the initial sadness. ‘I’m sure Gordon wouldn’t have …’ she stammered.
Heather interrupted. ‘He’ve always been very strict about it, you see. He doesn’t like anything cruel – the culling business isn’t to his liking, or so Sean said. But he do believe the badgers bring
the TB to the cows, so he never would have let her keep it, if he’d known. You can’t blame him, really, for shooting it. ’Twas Abby broke the rules, and if she’s made him furious now, that’s an end to our chances of going on living here.’
‘Can I sit down?’ Lilah asked, trying to process this lengthy speech. ‘Just for a few minutes?’
The woman tipped her chin at the other chair in the room. Lilah took it, and leant forward. ‘I’m sure Gordon won’t evict you – not until you can make other arrangements, anyway.’
‘They think it’s all in my mind, you know,’ Heather said suddenly, with a slow uncurling of her hand that somehow managed to indicate her whole body and its wretched condition.
‘Oh, I’m sure it’s not,’ Lilah said earnestly. ‘What an unkind thing to think!’
‘Sometimes …’ Heather faltered, ‘… well, sometimes I do wonder. The doctors say there’s naught they can find wrong with me, arthritis or some virus thing. The tests keep coming back normal. I got to wondering, really, what difference does it make?’
‘I don’t follow,’ Lilah frowned.
‘Hurts just as much, whatever the reason for it. I feel just as bad. But you don’t want to hear about this.’ She stared into Lilah’s face. ‘What did you come for?’
‘I told you – to bring my condolences, and to
see if there was anything I could do to help.’
A look not far from dislike crossed Heather’s features. ‘Gordon’s new girl then, are you? They get younger every time.’ She laughed abrasively. ‘I’ve seen a good few of them over the years.’
For the first time, Lilah realised that Heather was probably a good ten years younger than she looked; that she and Gordon had lived here on the farm together since they were in their early twenties. She had no intention of asking about Dunsworthy history, but she found herself wondering a hundred things at once; things that Heather O’Farrell was very likely to be able to tell her.
But she forced herself to stick with her original intention. ‘I came, really, to ask you whether you had any idea who might have killed Sean,’ she plunged on. ‘I mean, anyone he’d had a row with or who’d got some grudge against him. I expect the police have already asked you, but I know them. They don’t give you time to think, and they never properly understand the way things are, do they?’
‘Your dad were killed, up in Redstone?’ Heather remembered. ‘And you were going with that tall policeman till not so long ago.’
Lilah sighed; she’d hoped that someone who hardly ever left the house might have missed some of the local gossip. ‘That’s right,’ she smiled
sadly, hoping to keep the attention on her father’s death, rather than her liaison with Den.
‘Jilly told me. Her keeps me up with what’s happening. Don’t know where I’d be without Jilly. And they’re letting him do the investigating here, then?’ she went on slowly. ‘Bit strange, isn’t it? I should say that Gordon Hillcock might not be his most favourite man in the world. ’Twould make it hard to keep an open mind, that sort of thing.’
It was the first time anyone had stated the situation so baldly to Lilah. She resisted the sudden, unexpected urge to defend Den, to shout
He would never let anything affect his professional judgement
. In a moment it passed, and she narrowed her eyes in a kindred suspicion. ‘That’s what I thought,’ she agreed. ‘That’s why I don’t think it’s a good idea to leave the investigation entirely to him.’
She watched Heather closely. The woman was like a passive white sheep, bleating about her misfortunes, cowering in the house, apparently trying to hasten to an early death for no good reason, just like a silly ewe. But Lilah needed Heather to talk to her, to give an account of Sean’s life that had not yet been heard and which could explain the circumstances of his death. Lilah believed, on the basis of very little experience, that most husbands and wives knew each other
through and through. She believed that even if one partner was keeping secrets, the other one was generally able to guess what those secrets were. ‘So,’ she encouraged, ‘who do
you
think it could have been? Who could have hated Sean enough to kill him?’
The widow let her gaze fall away from Lilah’s, in a motion of despair and futility. ‘It’s no good asking me,’ she mumbled. ‘I never knew what he was up to. You’d be better off asking one of his mates. Fred Page, maybe. Or Eliot from next door.’
Lilah paused, knowing care was required. ‘I gather Eliot and Sean were pretty good friends?’ she attempted.
Heather smiled tightly. ‘You heard a bit more than that, shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Well …’
The widow sighed. ‘Don’t worry yourself – I knew Sean was fonder of Eliot than he were of me. It’s sure to come out, now he’s dead; things always do. Eliot’s nice enough, and he’ll be sorry at what’s happened to Sean, if he’s heard, as I dare say he will’ve done by this time. I thought of calling him, but …’
‘You don’t think maybe they’d fallen out? That Eliot could have been the one—?’
Heather shook her head with a watery smile. ‘There only be one person who’d fall out with
Sean bad enough to kill him,’ she said with impressive certainty. ‘And I dare say you think you know him inside out by this time. What is it – three months? And you madly in love with him and his clever ways with women.’
Lilah’s insides lurched and acid welled up into her throat. She choked on her sudden bewilderment. ‘How …?’ she tried to say.
A flash of pity showed in the older woman’s eyes. ‘You and me, we’re just two in a long line,’ she said gently. ‘And you may not believe me when I say I still have only to look at him for my blood to start hammering. Even now, with me like this, and never a man’s hand on me for fifteen years and more. Gordon Hillcock’s a devil and it were a bad day for you when he noticed you.’
The acid threatened to sear her gullet. It was as if Heather’s melodramatic words were burning her from the inside, as she let them enter her ears and soul. ‘No – it isn’t true!’ she spluttered. ‘He
loves
me. There’s never been anyone before that he’s felt like this about. He said so. We’re absolutely right together.’
Heather cast a brief glance at the ceiling, appealing silently for confirmation of her position. ‘Well, don’t say I never warned you,’ she said. Her expression softened into a kindness that Lilah found even harder to endure. ‘I don’t blame you,’ Heather added. ‘You’ll never find
another man to give you what Gordon can give a girl. It’s as if he was born with the gift of knowing what we like. And no one can say he’s wasted it, either.’ For all her illness and lack of colour or energy, the woman’s cheeks glowed for a moment at what could only be remembered bliss. ‘The Hillcocks and the O’Farrells have lived side by side for near twenty years,’ she said in a dreamy tone. ‘And between them, they’ve given me just about everything I’ve got now, good and bad both. Everything.’
Lilah was angry and embarrassed. And frightened. ‘Well,’ she said hurriedly, ‘I’d better go now. Thanks for talking to me.’ She scrambled up and started for the door. ‘I hope things will work out all right for you.’
Standing on the bottom stair was the girl, the rabbit still in her arms, relaxed and accepting.
‘Isn’t that a wild one?’ asked Lilah, hoping to calm her hammering heart.
Abigail nodded. ‘Found him a month or so back, out in the road. Just shocked and scared, nothing broken. We’re good mates now.’
The hall light fell on her face, catching her chubby cheeks and generous mouth in such a way as to make Lilah forget all about the rabbit.
No
, she cried silently.
Don’t let that be true
. But it was too late. Heather’s disclosures had already told her: Abigail O’Farrell had to be Gordon
Hillcock’s daughter. And regardless of the realities she knew were common to close-knit families living together in a remote community, the police were bound to find this new detail highly significant. To the stereotypical, mealy-mouthed, unimaginative police mind, this might be just what they needed to prove to themselves that Gordon killed Sean.
Friday dawned very much milder than the previous days had been, and although cloudy, it seemed inclined to be dry. Den woke from a long, deep sleep with a sense that something was about to happen, after the inconsequential drifting of the previous day. Some piece of evidence would be discovered; a witness would materialise; even a confession made. He whistled as he shaved, and then treated himself to two rashers of fried bacon, filling the flat with one of life’s most delightful smells.
The police station seemed subdued, almost idle, when he walked in. No phones were ringing, nobody was shouting in the holding cells. He was struck once more at the lack of impact made by
the death of Sean O’Farrell. It might have given Forensics plenty of work to do, but the CID team seemed to be finding it well within their comfort zone.
DI Hemsley had called the briefing for nine-thirty and Den went to the meeting room a few minutes early. It smelt of stale cigarettes and garlic. The latter seemed to emanate from Young Mike, who was sitting alertly close to the whiteboard like an overeager schoolboy. ‘Phew!’ Den protested. ‘What’ve you been eating?’
Mike flushed. ‘Had a curry last night,’ he admitted. ‘Why? Can you smell it?’
‘Just a bit,’ Den grinned. ‘They must have gone overboard on the garlic.’
‘Sorry. Let’s hope I don’t have to interview anybody this morning.’
‘If you do, my advice would be to keep your distance. They’ll have you for intimidation, otherwise.’
Jane Nugent made it into the room twenty seconds before Danny charged in carrying a box file, which he dropped carelessly onto the table beside the whiteboard. ‘Phew!’ he expostulated. ‘Who’s been eating garlic?’
Young Mike waved his pencil gently in admission.
‘Have a thought for your public, Smithson, eh? There’s people round here still think garlic’s
fit for nothing but scaring off vampires.’
Everyone grinned obediently, Den thinking it was probably true, and wondering just where Mike got his over-spiced curry. Was it possible the lad had cooked it himself?
‘Right – to work,’ Danny continued. ‘There’s been a development. Some nice kind anonymous individual has written us a letter.’ He picked up a white envelope from the top of the file and brandished it. ‘Came through the letterbox last night, as far as we can tell. No fingerprints. Done on a standard inkjet printer. Let me read it to you.’ He looked directly at Den, who began to feel distinctly agitated.
‘If you want to know who killed O’Farrell, you should talk to the Watson family. Ask them just how friendly Matthew was with him and why Sam had reason to loathe him. But it’s Mrs Watson you should pay special attention to
. That’s it. Cooper, you interviewed Mrs Watson, didn’t you? Who might Matthew and Sam be?’
‘Her son and daughter,’ Den supplied.
‘So this doesn’t mean much to you?’
Den shook his head slowly, as he tried to think. ‘Sam Watson was at the Limediggers on Wednesday. She’s part of an animal rights or conservation group. They all seemed to have a down on O’Farrell in a vague sort of way. Nothing specific.’
‘So this might not be just malicious nonsense?’ Hemsley flapped the letter.
Den frowned. ‘It’s a classic try-on, isn’t it, sir? I mean, if the writer really had any evidence against the Watsons, they’d spell it out. This is so vague, it’s worse than useless. What are we supposed to do about it?’
‘Confront these kids, for a start. Let them think we’ve come up with something that throws suspicion onto them. You know the way it works, Cooper. This might be very valuable.’ He lowered his square head, looking reprovingly down his nose at Den. ‘Open mind, remember. At all times.’
Den remained mulish. ‘But who—?’ he began.
‘Never mind who, for the moment. It could be someone close to the Watson family, who doesn’t want to be labelled as a Judas, but has seen or heard something they think we should know about. Someone who works with one of them; someone they regard as a friend. It’s not always easy in these country communities to bear witness against your friends. Think about it – if they give us direct information and we make use of it, they risk being identified as the source, simply because there’s such a limited number of people to choose from. Sometimes a hint is the best they dare offer. Understand?’
Den kept his head down.
‘Right. So there’s quite a few pointers to the Watson family. Thanks to Nugent,’ he nodded at Jane, who smiled self-effacingly, ‘we’ve got things more or less worked out as far as family ties are concerned. All these youngsters are pairing up as you might expect, and the assumption has to be that most of them know each other’s parents as well. The Watson daughter, now, is involved with a certain Jeremy Page and his dad was O’Farrell’s mate. I think we can all see that this gives us a clear link between the Watsons and the O’Farrells, apart from the milk recording angle. And the girl’s choice of boyfriend might make her mother very upset, because the Pages don’t have a good image locally. I take it she hasn’t made any mention of it?’ Danny raised his eyebrows at Den, who shook his head. ‘I’m just asking myself whether we might have a trigger here. Something that’s made O’Farrell even more objectionable to Mrs Watson than his nastiness to his cows. And it occurs to me that a woman who gets to meet all these farmers on their own turf, so to speak, seeing them at work, listening to them rabbiting on, letting their tongues run away with them because they hardly ever see anybody to talk to – well, she feels like she could be a pretty central element in the puzzle to me. Add to that the fact that she was at Dunsworthy when our man was slaughtered – and I’m wondering why we haven’t
had her in here undergoing the third degree, instead of a cosy chat over coffee two days ago?’
The knowledge that Hemsley was counting Deirdre as a viable suspect was unwelcome to Den. Damn it, he’d
liked
Deirdre Watson, almost as much as he’d liked Ted Speedwell. Hemsley went on, ‘I want both of you – Cooper and Smithson – to go back to the Watson place, and to speak to the youngsters. How old are they, by the way?’
‘The girl’s around eighteen, and I don’t know about the boy. Younger, if he’s still at home, presumably.’ Den spoke flatly, feeling as if something which had been within his grasp was rushing away from him in entirely the wrong direction. His anxiety blurred into annoyance, laced with a thread of panic; he clenched his teeth, determined that his feelings should not show.
‘Right. Well, be gentle but firm. I want details of every meeting they’ve had with O’Farrell in the past few months; every word they’ve spoken to him, everything they know and think about him. I suggest you keep them absolutely separate, and do it as a twosome. Not one with the boy and one with the girl. There’s a whiff of conspiracy starting to come off this.’
‘Not as strong as the garlic, though,’ quipped Nugent, leaning forward as if to remind the others of her presence. Danny snorted and
turned his attention to her, as she’d intended.
‘Nugent, it seems you might have more of a part to play in this case than we first thought.’ He chewed his upper lip for a moment, in uncharacteristic uncertainty, before apparently taking a decision. ‘Right,’ he repeated. ‘We’ll spend the next ten minutes running over the forensic findings again, getting as full a picture as we can of how the victim died, where and when. There’s nothing new – we’ll just be refreshing our memories and weeding out any fanciful embellishments. Then I want Cooper and Smithson to get cracking on the Watson interviews, and Nugent – I’ll see you on your own.’
Den felt sick. It had taken him half a minute to work out that Danny was planning to send Nugent to speak to Lilah, sparing Den’s sensitivities in his own clumsy way, but in fact only adding to his discomfort. Lilah was, after all, a valid witness and it was no surprise that she should be embroiled in the murder inquiry. He expected that Hemsley would probably arrange a call on a few of Hillcock’s previous girlfriends as well. But Lilah was obviously the most important one, and it was no surprise at all that Den would be debarred from interviewing her.
It felt all wrong. He should have insisted on withdrawing from the case from the start. Now he would inevitably be party to whatever Lilah
had to say about Hillcock – what a good man he was; how murder was not in his nature; how she’d stake her life on his innocence; how much she loved him. His stomach swelled and he tasted his morning bacon, gone sour and fatty.
The briefing was soon concluded, though not quite as rapidly as Danny had predicted. Den managed to pull himself together enough to contribute the name of Eliot Speedwell as another individual who might be pertinent to the case, and should be interviewed pretty soon. The Inspector’s face was grim as he concluded the meeting. ‘It’s not an easy one,’ he said. ‘The circumstantials all suggest it was Hillcock, a lot of the locals think it was him, and the forensics don’t suggest anybody else. But there’s no case against anyone – not yet, at least. Nothing that would stand the shadow of a chance in court. And you don’t need me to tell you that this sort of inquiry is not fun. It feels like a waste of time and effort from the outset. But we’re not giving up, not for a long time yet. People get careless, they think we’ve lost interest. Things start to settle down and go on as before. That’s when we have to be at our keenest. We have to have ears and eyes everywhere. So I don’t want you even thinking of giving up.’ He fixed Den and Mike with a hard stare. ‘Understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ they chorused obligingly.
Jane Nugent was uncomfortable with her instructions from the DI.
This is extremely delicate
, he warned.
By rights, we should bring someone in from another area, but they tell me there isn’t anybody available till Monday
. And he had gone on to explain that they couldn’t ignore the possibility that Den was somehow more involved in the Dunsworthy murder than might first appear.
Of course, we know he didn’t personally kill the bloke – he was here at the station all afternoon – but … well, you can work it out for yourself
.
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.’