Authors: Rebecca Tope
‘That’s true.’
‘But this was different?’
She directed her gaze at him, ignoring Den. She knew where the real power lay. ‘Yes, it’s different,’ she agreed. ‘Last month, he had five newly-calved
heifers to milk. They were all terrified of him – wouldn’t come into the parlour, wouldn’t stand still for him. And he just flipped. He hurt them as much as he could without leaving marks.’
‘With you there as a witness? Wasn’t there some trouble a few years ago, where you reported him for the same sort of thing?’
She nodded. ‘That’s it, you see. Nothing changed when I complained before, so he thought he was safe. He thought I’d got used to it – which I had, up to a point.’ She fell silent for a moment. ‘But I didn’t kill him,’ she added, almost inconsequentially. ‘If I’d been going to, I’d have done it there in the parlour, last month.’
Hemsley swerved onto another tack. ‘Did Sean know your son Matthew?’
Her eyes widened. ‘Not that I know of. Matthew knows Abigail slightly. They go to the same school. Why?’
‘Just a hunch. We picked up some comments about O’Farrell inviting locals to badger baiting sessions. We wondered …’
‘Matthew would
never
do that!’ she shouted. ‘He’s the softest, gentlest boy in the world. There’s
no way
…’
‘Okay,’ Hemsley placated her. ‘You just never quite know with boys, do you? No parents can be sure to keep tabs on them, or guess what they might get up to.’
‘Not Matthew,’ she insisted. Then her expression changed. ‘Although I
have
been a bit worried about him. It’s got nothing to do with Sean, though.’
‘You’re certain of that?’
She sagged. ‘I am now, but I wasn’t to start with. Sam got me started, saying there was talk about Eliot Speedwell being gay and going to places in Plymouth. Matthew’s been trying to tell us for ages that he’s … that way. We’ve been keeping very cool and calm about it, but suddenly it all seemed to be closing in. There are so many predatory men around and he’d be sure to get terribly hurt. I knew Eliot was friendly with Sean. He talked about him during milking sometimes. But it was only a few months ago – when I heard the rumours – I wondered if the two of them were … although I don’t think Sean was really the type. It all seemed rather silly when I really stopped to think about it.’
‘But not before you’d imagined the sickening Sean trying something with your son?’
‘Something like that,’ she admitted. ‘I knew it was stupid, of course. I just panicked for a little while. I never thought I could be at all homophobic, but when it’s your own son, and he’s only sixteen …’
‘I know,’ said Hemsley softly.
She sniffed sharply and gained more control
of herself. ‘Well, that’s about all there is to it.’
‘Not quite. Your encounter with Sean at the school bazaar, when he said something about your “mucky ways”. What was all that about?’
She flushed deep red and twisted in her chair. ‘That’s extremely embarrassing,’ she mumbled, ‘and completely irrelevant.’
‘Please tell me.’
‘He meant the time I desperately needed a pee, during milking one afternoon. It was Sean doing it that day. They haven’t got a loo outside, and I’d never ask to use the one in the house, so I made some excuse about needing more sample pots and dashed out to one of the sheds and just peed on the floor. It’s not so unusual, really. But the swine followed me and totally freaked out. He went green in the face and said I was disgusting. It was all very unpleasant, but I decided it was some hang-up of his, and not my problem. Most men would just laugh it off, or be ashamed of having seen me. Sean acted as if I’d done something utterly unspeakable.’
Hemsley and Den said nothing and avoided each other’s glance, each recalling their theory involving a very similar incident. The DI jotted a few notes on his pad. Deirdre’s nervousness increased and she clearly felt she should say more. ‘It’s not as if I
ever
wished him dead. Of course not. But you said there were other things on
your list. Badgers and other animals. Well, I have heard rumours about Sean and badger baiting, but not until after he died. Tom Beasley – he said something about it. And of course, Sean upset a lot of people, his own daughter amongst them, with the things he did.’ She prattled on, scarcely drawing breath; Den could hardly bear it.
Hemsley held up a hand. ‘It won’t do, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘And although I will have some further questions for you, I must first give you the usual caution. I’m sorry to tell you, Mrs Watson, that you are under arrest …’
‘It does fit, Den,’ said Young Mike, aware of Den’s outrage, as were the whole team. ‘Remember how she was when we arrived at the scene. No sign of any hysterics or squeamishness. She even had some blood on her hand.’
‘But—’ Den could hardly speak. ‘
Evidence!
’ he exploded. ‘There’s nothing
at all
that amounts to a case against her.’
Hemsley pursed his lips and said nothing. Jane Nugent jumped in to ease the tension. ‘Reminds me of that poem by Ted Hughes,’ she remarked. ‘The one about nasty beasties at the bottom of the pretty pond. I forget the title.’
Miserably, Den jerked his head at Mike and got to his feet. The Inspector was making
a ghastly mistake and Den didn’t want to see more of it than he had to. There were times, he grumbled to himself, when the job stank.
Gordon Hillcock was feeding the sick calf that had been found by Ted and Den, patiently cupping his hand into a bucket of warm milk, reminding it of a skill it must have possessed for weeks. He thought it was getting slightly stronger as the days wore on. He’d ask Mary to take over, if she’d condescend to set foot in one of the farm buildings for once. Ted was going to be fully occupied filling in for Sean in the yardwork. He’d already been given the job of burying the dead calves, despite the hard ground. ‘Just get them out of my sight,’ he ordered. ‘I’ve seen enough death for one week.’
If it hadn’t been for that policeman witnessing the whole business, he’d have made up an identity for the surviving calf – giving one of his cows a twin birth instead of a singleton. As it was, he supposed he’d be questioned and investigated because of what bloody Sean had been doing. There’d be reports and warnings and even the risk of a fine. It probably wouldn’t matter to the RSPCA or whoever chose to prosecute, whether or not the man really responsible was dead. It was a sickening mess and Gordon just wished it could all be over and done with. The business
with Abigail and the badger had merely added to his troubles. How Sean could have allowed her to keep the creature defied comprehension. The man was impossible, anyone could see that.
As he crossed the yard from the calfpen to the big shed, intending to rouse the cows for the afternoon milking, he heard a familiar tapping on an upstairs window in the house behind him. He turned and waved. Granny Hillcock often rapped on the glass if she saw him from her window.
She’ll break it one day
, he thought to himself, not for the first time. The image of the old lady bleeding to death from such an ironic accident brought a thin smile to his lips. Granny Hillcock was a permanent fixture at Dunsworthy: she’d been there for almost eighty years, a length of time impossible to comprehend. She’d milked twenty-five cows by hand, night and morning, reared pigs and lambs and ducks and geese, and invariably had a book to read in the few minutes of rest after dinner, which was always served promptly at noon. She’d given birth to three children in her thirties and lost two of them to diphtheria. The disease had come unexpectedly to this sparsely-populated area of Devon.
‘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.’