Authors: Rebecca Tope
She sighed. ‘To be honest with you, I was asleep. And even if I’d been awake, I wouldn’t have worried. I’d have thought he might have
been held up with a cow calving or something. There’s always plenty to do on a farm.’
‘So the time-keeping isn’t always so precise?’ Den said.
She blinked up at him. ‘It is at dinner time,’ she insisted petulantly. ‘And Sean knows I depend on him for almost everything these days. He wouldn’t have left me alone for long. This young man arrived before I really missed Sean. He woke me up.’
‘You were asleep here? In the chair?’
‘That’s right. It’s cold upstairs when the weather’s like this.’
‘How long had you been sleeping?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ The impatience was mixed with self-pity. ‘Since about half past three or four, I suppose.’
‘The fire had almost gone out,’ Mike offered. ‘I built it up again for the lady.’
‘Very kind of you,’ Den remarked. ‘It’s certainly pretty warm in here now.’ He glanced around and noticed as well as the blazing fire, a free-standing gas heater behind her chair, going full pelt. No wonder the room was so stifling. He decided not to make any further notes for now. There was still the matter of who, if anyone, was to sit with the widow, to support her in her shock and grief.
‘Would you like us to find your daughter and
bring her home?’ he suggested. ‘She ought to be back as soon as possible, in the circumstances.’
The woman shuddered. ‘No, no. God, I can’t cope with her throwing tantrums at a time like this! Let her alone for tonight. You can go and get her in the morning. I’ll give you the address. Although …’ A new, disturbing thought seemed to have struck her.
‘Yes?’
‘There’s her animals. Normally, when she’s out, Sean does them for her.’
‘Animals?’
‘She keeps some … pets … outside. A sort of amateur rescue shelter in the back garden.’ Mrs O’Farrell frowned.
‘And they need to be fed?’
She nodded. ‘There’s a bag of pellets and some hay in the back scullery.’
‘I’m afraid you might have to do it yourself,’ he told her, trying to keep the severity out of his voice.
She threw him a look of pure amazement. ‘Me?’ she squawked. ‘But I
never
do it.’
Mike stepped forward. ‘Let me,’ he offered. ‘Is it rabbits – that sort of thing?’
The new widow had shifted into uncooperative mode. ‘All sorts of things,’ she mumbled, shrinking down in her chair. Den felt a great urge to shake her, force her onto her feet, urge her to
take some sort of control of her own life.
‘Come on, then,’ he snapped, angry with Mike for volunteering and himself for being so churlish.
Outside, the land sloped downhill, a half-acre plot littered with ramshackle hutches. They had a torch each – one from the police car and one from the O’Farrell scullery. It looked like a miniature shanty town. A copse was a dark mass at the bottom of the hill. Den played his torch over the area in astonishment.
‘She must spend most of her time coping with all this,’ he said.
‘Quite a responsibility,’ Mike agreed. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got.’
‘We can’t feed everything,’ Den decided. ‘Must be eight or ten cages here. God knows what’s lurking inside them.’
‘Just a scattering to keep them going,’ Mike insisted, already filling a metal bowl with small brown food pellets. ‘Looks like it’s mostly rabbits and guinea pigs.’
Den left him to it. Mike moved from cage to cage, aiming his torch through the netting, trying to locate food bowls. One of the boxy constructions had a long netting run attached to it. Den could see movement inside. ‘What’s that?’ he called.
‘A badger!’ came Mike’s enthralled reply. ‘Seems to have a bad leg – it’s limping.’
‘Do badgers eat rabbit food?’
‘Shouldn’t think so. I think they eat mice, or slugs. I don’t know.’
‘Rabbits, probably,’ said Den grimly. ‘Well, they’ll have to make do for now. We should get a move on. Hillcock’s waiting.’
They went back indoors to report that the animals would be fine until morning. But instead of thanking them, Heather O’Farrell just sank her chin lower onto her chest. Her face was pale and soft, like that of a much older woman; although not lined, it seemed to sag downwards, an impression strengthened by her hair, which was straight and long and colourless. If the daughter was only fifteen, and the husband thirty-eight, Den supposed she must be something under forty, yet she looked like a woman in her late fifties. In fact, she observed, she looked at least as old as his own mother.
‘How about asking someone from next door to come and sit with you?’
She shook her head. ‘Mary Hillcock,’ she said waveringly. ‘I think Mary might be kind enough …’
‘She’s up at the big house, is she?’ Den remembered a sister accompanying Gordon to one or two village events that he’d attended in his younger days. And once more, he remembered Hillcock waiting for further questioning and
probable retribution. The thought revived Den and he came close to rubbing his hands together in anticipation. ‘Okay, then,’ he said briskly, ‘we’ll ask her if she’ll come down. Thank you for your time. We hope you’ll soon get better. I’m afraid we’ll have to come back tomorrow for further questions. The Coroner’s Officer, Mr Newcombe, will contact you, too. And … we’re both very sorry about what’s happened.’
She nodded unresponsively and let them make their way unaccompanied out of the room. At the last minute, Den heard her murmur, ‘I won’t
ever
get better, you know,’ before he left.
Outside, Mike let out a long breath. ‘I thought you were never coming,’ he said. ‘She was sending me round the twist in there.’
‘What’s wrong with her? Did you find out?’
Mike shook his head. ‘No idea,’ he said. ‘But you can’t help feeling sorry for her husband, can you?’
Den drove carefully back up to the farmhouse, where the scattered cars of the forensics people had been joined by a discreet undertaker’s vehicle. The body was being loaded onto a shelf at the back when Den and Mike arrived.
‘Now, you find Hillcock while I go and talk to the family,’ Den said, with ill-concealed relish.
The big house had windows looking over the farmyard, as well as down towards the road and the workers’ cottages. Lights were on in most of the ground floor rooms, and as he approached, Den could see through the uncurtained windows to the domestic scene inside. To the left of the front door was a large living room, lined with bookcases and illuminated by three standard lamps. A woman sat sideways-on to the window, in a comfortable-looking armchair, writing on a thick pad perched on her lap. Den wondered at this – surely she must be aware that something untoward was taking place in the yard just outside? To look at her, anyone would think it was just an ordinary winter’s evening.
Curiosity aroused, Den moved to peer through the window on the other side of the door. It revealed a kitchen cum dining room, cluttered on every surface with saucepans, mugs and assorted paraphernalia, with a dense forest of pot-grown plants along the windowsill. It took a moment to locate the human being in the room. A youngish woman stood at the sink halfway along the right-hand wall, washing up.
That must be Mary
, thought Den, although he didn’t really recognise her.
He didn’t want Young Mike to hear anything these women might say about his ex-girlfriend. He gestured at two cars still parked in the yard,
one of which was being approached by a young woman from forensics. ‘When you’ve found Hillcock and brought him to the house, I bet she’d give you a lift back to the station, if you ask nicely.’
Mike dithered uncertainly. ‘Are you going to take Mr Hillcock in for questioning?’
‘What would you do, in my place?’ Den asked him, really wanting to know.
‘Well,’ Mike reacted nervously, as if being tested. ‘It … er … looks as if he’s been around the yard all afternoon, which makes him a key witness, if nothing else. He does seem a bit … unstable. We’ve got to take him in.’
‘That leaves them with nobody to do the milking in the morning,’ Den reminded his junior.
Mike shrugged as if this was a minor detail.
Townie
, thought Den. But he was disproportionately relieved to have Mike endorse his own inclinations. It wouldn’t be
responsible
to leave Hillcock at large, given what had happened. The timing was unfortunate, but that couldn’t be helped. ‘Right then,’ he said. ‘Off you go. I’ll be okay. I’ll fetch Hillcock; you needn’t wait.’
The forensics girl was already in her car and looked ready to drive off. Mike sighed. ‘Sorry, Sarge, but I don’t think I should leave you on your own. What if Hillcock plays up in the car? It wouldn’t look very good, would it? I’ll stay.’
With an uncomfortable cocktail of emotions, Den nodded. ‘You’re probably right,’ he admitted. ‘That’s our man, look. Over in the tank room.’
Gordon was clearly waiting for them with some impatience. He had taken off the rubber apron. ‘First, make him account for his guns – there’s sure to be at least one around the place. The doctor said O’Farrell wasn’t shot, but we can’t be too careful. Then get him to give you that thing he was wearing.’ Mike nodded cooperatively. ‘Take him upstairs and make him change. Bag up everything he takes off. Quick as you can, okay?’
Alone, Den knocked on the farmhouse door. It was answered by the younger woman, who looked anxious. ‘What on
earth
is going on out there? My mother went out to ask, and some officious idiot told her to stay in the house. We do
live
here, you know.’
‘I know. I’m very sorry for all the disturbance. I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything for another few minutes. Mr Hillcock will be coming in very shortly and we’ll speak to you then.’
She looked up into his face and he tried to analyse her expression. She was pale and frowning, but he could detect no real fear.
Nobody she loves is under threat
, he concluded.
Not yet, anyway
. It sounded as if her mother was just the same, as if she’d meekly withdrawn to the house
when asked to, content to wait for explanations. There was no sense of urgency to these women. ‘I’m assuming you are Mr Hillcock’s sister Mary,’ Den said. ‘Is that your mother in the living room?’
‘That’s right. She decided that if we were confined to quarters, she may as well get on with some work until officialdom condescended to enlighten us.’
Mike and Hillcock arrived quickly, Mike carrying the rubber apron in an evidence bag and Gordon pushing ahead, striding into the passageway and making straight for the stairs. His sister put out a hand to stop him. ‘Gordon?’ she said. ‘What happened? What were all those cars doing in the yard?’
‘Sean’s dead,’ he told her briefly. ‘I found him in the barn. These are the police. But I suppose you know that already. You’ve missed all the excitement – the body was taken away ten minutes ago.’ He stood rooted to the floor of the hallway, breathing heavily. To Den, he seemed bovine, a bullock waiting for the next incomprehensible move from the humans around him.
‘What?’ Mary said with a bemused frown. ‘What are you talking about?’
Den studied her, aware of having taken almost no notice of her on their previous brief encounters. In her early thirties, with the same round cheeks as her brother, but none of his high colour, she
gave a similar impression of rootedness, like a piece of large furniture. Her hair was light brown, cut very short, but still betraying a persistent curl. She wore a sloppy jumper, which came well down her thighs, with narrow leggings underneath. It partly concealed her generous girth, but not entirely. Mary Hillcock was a big woman, of a shape once greatly admired, but currently dismissed as
overweight
. Den was sorry for her.
‘What’s going on?’ came a voice from the doorway. The woman from the living room stood there, tall and stern. She resembled neither Gordon nor Mary; Den would have labelled her as a visitor, rather than a blood relative, if he didn’t know better.
‘Mother,’ said Gordon dully.
‘I’m afraid there’s been a fatality,’ Den told her. ‘Sean O’Farrell died some time this afternoon.’
‘But … what happened to him?’ The woman darted wide-eyed looks from one face to another.
‘We believe he was attacked,’ said Den carefully, wanting to pre-empt any suggestion of suicide. ‘Could I ask you both where you were between two and four this afternoon?’
‘We were at work,’ said Mary promptly. ‘We came home together, arriving just after five-thirty.’
‘Do you work at the same place?’
Mary shook her head. ‘I teach in Okehampton
and my mother’s a counsellor in North Devon. Barnstaple, to be exact.’
Den frowned. ‘So how come you share a car?’
‘She comes home via Okehampton and collects me. It saves petrol.’
Den wrote it all down in his notebook. It gave him some satisfaction to inform them, ‘Mr Hillcock will be coming with us now, to assist us with our enquiries. My colleague and I have been speaking with Mrs O’Farrell. She did ask whether Mary might be able to go and sit with her this evening. She’s all alone and apparently she isn’t well …’
‘You’re
arresting
Gordon?’ the older woman interrupted, incredulity bursting from every pore.
‘No, no,’ said Den. ‘He isn’t under arrest. But—’
‘I hope you can get him back in time for the morning milking,’ said the mother grimly. ‘It’ll be chaos otherwise.’
Den wondered why one of these women couldn’t stand in. He was reminded of Lilah’s mother, who could no more have milked a herd of cows than masterminded a military campaign. Maybe his former girlfriend had found Dunsworthy more of a home from home than he’d imagined.
‘We’ll ask Lilah,’ said Gordon, flatly, unnervingly. ‘I’ll have to phone her anyway. That’s
assuming I won’t be allowed home again tonight?’ He directed an unfocused gaze at Den. His words came slowly, as if fighting to the surface through layers of tightly-packed emotion. Den noticed the man’s hands were shaking, despite the clenched fists, bunched against his legs. Hearing Lilah’s name issuing from Hillcock’s lips gave Den a deeply painful moment; the casual proprietary tone was scarcely bearable.