Dancing With the Virgins (20 page)

*

Warren Leach was waiting for the milk tanker. It was
one of the few routines that still held his day together.
Bringing the cows in, milking, waiting for the tanker. The morning's yield was taken for Hartington Stilton,
the local cheese made at the dairy in Dovedale. It was
something most farmers were proud of, that their milk
was going for Stilton. It was like still being part of the
traditional dairy industry of the dales, not an anonymous unit of production for some huge commercial
organization. Leach had once been proud of it himself, and had boasted about the quality of his milk. Now he
found he couldn't care less. He would have been just
as happy to pour the stuff down the drain or into the
nearest ditch
.

The lad who normally came to help him had not
turned up yesterday or today, so Leach had done everything himself. Gary was one of the Dawsons, from over
the moor at Pilhough. The Dawsons weren't up to much, but at least they were farming folk. But there had been a blazing row on Sunday afternoon, when Leach had lost his temper and sworn at the lad and accused him of being idle. Gary had threatened he would never come again, and it looked as though he never would
.

In a way, Leach preferred it; he preferred to be left
on his own, to have so much to do that it left no time
for thinking. Yet it only lasted for a while, only until
after the tanker had gone and the rest of the jobs held
no urgency. Then, when there were no cows bellowing
for attention, no tanker driver sounding his horn in the lane, when his sons had gone off to school in Cargreave
on the bus — then he found the rest of the day stretched
before him endlessly
.

But this morning a car had arrived. He had been
expecting the tanker turning in from the road, but the
sound of the engine was wrong. The big diesel always
made the glass in the windows of the farmhouse vibrate,
and the layer of dust on the window ledge dance and
slide before it settled into a new pattern. There had been
plenty of police vehicles going by the farm for the past
two days, of course — but they went straight up the lane, past the front of the shippon. They didn't turn into the yard like this car did
.

Leach's chest grew tight with apprehension. He had
known it would only be a matter of time before the men he feared arrived
.

The farmer looked at his hands, astonished at the dirt ingrained in his fingers, as if he hadn't washed for days.
How long had his hands been like that? He glanced at
the steel cabinet where his shotgun was locked, and
waited for the familiar surge of aggression to come, for the righteous anger to drive strength and heat into his limbs. He was the sort of man who ought to be able to
see a bailiff off, no problem. But something was wrong.
Somehow the adrenalin failed to flow, the flush of tes
tosterone never came. He felt weak and helpless; he
was alone and cornered, yet with no fight left in him.
It was the feeling that he had always dreaded would come to him in the end
.

Leach laughed quietly as he listened for the men to
enter the gate. 'You've had it, Warren. What use are you now?' He thought of not answering the door, of
hiding in another room until the strangers went away.
It was what a woman might do, or a child. Was he reduced to that?
Unable to face the answer, he stood paralysed when
the knock came at the door. A second knock followed,
more impatient. Then Leach moved, without a thought in his head about what he would say. What did bailiffs do in these circumstances? Obviously, the men hadn't
come alone in a car to take away his furniture. Maybe
they had come to deliver a court notice. Maybe they had
just come to check what he had that was worth selling.
Good luck to them, then. There was precious little
.

But they weren't bailiffs, after all, just the police again.
The first face he saw he recognized immediately, and
it reminded him that there were vitally important things
he ought to have done, but hadn't. He had watched the
police cars and vans go backwards and forwards across
his land, cursing each one as they went, yet desperate to know what they were doing up on the moor, to hear
what they had found out about the woman who had
died. He longed for someone to tell him what was going
on. Yet now these policemen had arrived, he didn't know what to do, except to tell them he had nothing to say.

‘
Detective Constable Cooper and Detective Constable
Weenink, Mr Leach. We just need a few words, that's
all. We won't keep you from your work long. We know
how busy you farmers always are.
’

The one who spoke tried a smile. Leach refused to
be impressed. 'Cut the crap. I see enough of it round
here.'

‘
If that's the way you want it.
’

Leach looked at the other one, the big one in the
leather jacket, and felt a small measure of his old confi
dence starting to return. 'What have they sent you two
for? Ranger scared to come here any more, is he? Thought he needed to send in the heavy mob? You won't get anything out of me, anyway.'

‘
We're collecting information about vehicles seen
in this area on Sunday,' said Weenink, staring at the
farmer.

‘
Are you now? But they've asked me about this before.'

‘
We're following up a report on a van that was
noticed leaving your farm entrance between two and three o'clock that day. Was that your van?'

‘
Does it look as though I've got a van? A Land Rover,
but that's knackered. Otherwise it's a tractor or the back
of a cow if I want to get about.'

‘
Does that mean I can put you down as "does not own a van"?'

‘
If you like.'

‘
The witness said it was a white van, but not very clean. Probably a Ford Transit.'

‘
Lots of those about.'

‘
Do you recall seeing this van?' asked Cooper. 'Did it belong to a visitor to the farm?'

‘
I don't get many visitors here.'

‘
But that afternoon you did, didn't you?'

‘
Not that I remember.'

‘
Could it have been a sales rep? An agricultural engineer? Something like that?'

‘
Can't afford to speak to either of 'em at the moment.
’

‘
A parcel delivery?'

‘
You're joking.'

‘
Do you know
anybody
with a van of that description?'

‘
Listen, let me help you out. It would likely have been
some bugger who'd got lost and decided to use my
land to turn round on. Or maybe he'd stopped to have
his sandwiches with his van blocking my gateway.
That's happened before, too. Police'll never do anything
about it, obviously. Too bloody busy, aren't you?'

‘
I'm sure if you phoned the station, they would send
somebody out when they had a car available.
’

Leach began to cough. He was wishing the policemen
would go away; his lungs were responding as if he had
an allergic reaction. He was too tired to argue with
them. Besides, they didn't look as though they would
put up with absolutely anything, the way the Ranger
did.

‘
Do you get joyriders up here?' said Cooper. 'It's a
quiet spot. They like to abandon vehicles somewhere
and set fire to them.
’

Leach followed the detective's gaze. He was looking
at the scorched shell of the pick-up on the hard-standing
near the big shed.

‘
A bit of an accident,' said Leach. 'I'll get a few spares
off it when I get round to it.'

‘
This white van . . .' said Weenink
.

Leach shrugged. 'I'd like to help, but —
’

‘
What about your two sons?' asked Cooper.
'What about them?'

‘
Were they at home on Sunday? They might have seen the van. Can we speak to them?'

‘
They're at school.'

‘
Someone could call back later.'

‘
I don't know about that.'

‘
And your wife?' said Cooper. 'Was she here at the time?'

‘
My wife?' Leach finally spat out the irritation that
had been troubling his lungs, narrowly missing
Cooper's boots. 'You're wasting your time, mister. You
can forget all about her.
’

Later in the morning, Diane Fry and DI Hitchens walked
into the DCI's office. Tailby looked at them with a faint
hope. 'Is there something?' he said.

‘
A couple of things on the parents. The Westons,' said
Hitchens.

‘
Oh?'

‘
Number one, they had a burglary last year, at a week
end cottage they've got at Ashford-in-the-Water.
’

‘
A weekend cottage? That's nice, on a teacher's salary.'

‘
Apparently, the Westons are planning on retiring to
this cottage in a year or two. Presumably Mr Weston
is taking early retirement. He's a deputy head, by the
way.'

‘
A good pension, I suppose.
’

Fry thought the DCI was starting to sound wistful.
His own retirement date was a few years away yet,
but he could make it come closer if he wanted to. She
wondered how much the cottage had cost the Westons.
She imagined honeysuckle growing by the front door
and roses in the garden, a couple of loungers by a small
pond with a few Koi carp. She tried to imagine Tailby
living in such a cottage. But Eric Weston had a Mrs
Weston to retire to his cottage with. It made a difference.

‘
A burglary, eh?'

‘
And we detected it, too,' said Hitchens. 'Who needs
Home Office grants?
’

Tailby grunted, unamused. The previous year, word
had gone round that there was government cash available for special initiatives targeting residential
burglaries. Divisions were invited to come up with their own projects — but there were criteria to be met. There
had to be a target area with a high enough level of
burglaries. E Division had failed to get the cash, because
no matter how they juggled the geography or the time
periods, the figures just wouldn't stack up.

‘
This was more than a burglary, actually. The place
was trashed. It was a real mess — you should see the
photos.'

‘
There's nothing new in that.'

‘
I talked to the investigating officer yesterday, any
way,' said Hitchens. 'At least he's still in the division.
Usually you find they've long since moved on some
where else, or they've packed it in and joined that firm of enquiry agents that set up in town a couple of years
back.'

‘
What's the other thing?' asked the DCI.

‘
Well, Mr Weston had a little bit of trouble last year.
There was an enquiry after a fatal accident to a child
on a school trip he was leading.'

‘
OK. We might as well ask him about it, I suppose.
’

‘
More than that, sir.'

‘
Why?
’

Hitchens tapped the file. 'It all came out when we made the arrest for the burglary. This convicted
offender, name of Wayne Sugden — it turned out he was
the uncle of the child that died. It was no secret that
the family blamed Mr Weston for the accident, because
it was all over the papers. He got death threats, too, but
we could never prove where they came from. It seems
the Sugdens are a pretty close clan in Edendale. You're
not safe if you harm one of their number.'

‘
So the burglary could have been revenge on
Weston?' said Tailby. 'Is it significant?'

‘
There's one good reason it might be,' said Hitchens.
'This Wayne Sugden. He got sent down for twelve
months, protesting his innocence all the way to Derby
nick. But the trouble is — they let him out two weeks
ago.
’