Healers (6 page)

“Yes.”

“Apparently that was only the start. He said he’d decided to open up Laverock Farm for a weekend for one of those festivals. You know, the

New Age things that they show on the television. Convoys of travellers descending on an area doing God knows what damage. Loud music all night. Drugs. And no way of knowing when they’re going to move on or where they’re going to end up next.” He paused for breath.

“When was this festival going to take place?”

“June,” Bowles said. “The summer solstice.”

“Was he serious?”

“No!” Peter Richardson interrupted with a sneer. “It was just a wind up.”

“How was I to know?” the father demanded angrily. “That man was capable of anything.”

“You objected to the plan? Formally?”

“Of course I bloody objected. We run a classy operation, up market Sue sees to that. I didn’t want my punters frightened off by a load of drug-crazed morons.”

“Yes,” Ramsay said. “I understand.”

“Do you?” Richardson was almost shouting. “It’s only the holiday side of the business that’s stopped us from going bankrupt.” He stopped abruptly.

Ramsay turned to Peter, the son, who had been watching the exchange with an amused detachment. He seemed untroubled by the prospect of bankruptcy or perhaps his father had made the threat so many times that he no longer believed it. He was full of himself. Ramsay could see that. Too cocky by half. If he’d been brought up on an inner city estate he’d have been a delinquent, a stealer of flash cars, the sort of lad who didn’t mind a prison sentence because it gave him the reputation for being hard. Here in the country Ramsay suspected he would have the same reputation, but with less effort. He’d be a heavy drinker, known for screwing his suppliers for the best possible deal, a jack the lad to be rather admired.

“Is that what your argument with Mr. Bowles was about?” Ramsay asked.

“What do you mean?” Peter Richardson spoke insolently.

“I understand there was a fight in a Mittingford pub.”

“That?” The boy laughed. “That wasn’t a fight. He’d have been in hospital if he tried to mess with me. He tripped, that was all. I wouldn’t waste my time on him.”

“But there was an argument. What was that about?”

“He needed teaching a lesson,” Peter said, contradicting himself. “He was a mucky old sod.”

Ramsay saw his father flash him a look of warning but he took no notice.

“So you decided to teach him a lesson,” Ramsay said. “Why that night?”

“He was annoying my girl. She didn’t like it and I wasn’t going to stand for it. Sexual harassment, that’s what it was. Leering across the bar at her, suggesting all sorts. It’s an offence these days, isn’t it? I was doing your job for you, that’s all.”

“You didn’t have any other occasions to teach him a lesson?” Ramsay asked. His voice was dangerously quiet.

At last the boy seemed to recognize the need for caution.

“No!” he said. “I’ve told you. He wasn’t worth bothering about. I just kept out of his way.”

“When was the last time you saw Mr. Bowles?”

Peter Richardson shook his head. “Don’t know. Probably not since that time in the pub.” He gave a little triumphant laugh. “He probably kept out of my way after that.”

Ramsay turned to the father. “And you, Mr. Richardson?”

“I’ve not seen him to speak to since he was up here with that plan for the New Age festival. I’d only lose my temper. I’ve passed him sometimes in the lane when he was driving that Land-Rover of his …”

“Did you see the Land-Rover this weekend?”

Richardson shook his head.

“You didn’t notice any strange cars on the land?”

“Not ‘specially. But this time of the year lots of people come out from town for a ride in the country. That’s why Sue thinks she could make a go of a restaurant.”

Sue, it seemed, was some kind of oracle.

“What about a blue Transit van, early Sunday morning, coming from the Mittingford direction?”

“No.” He turned to his son. “You were out shooting yesterday morning. Did you see anything?”

“No.” But the reply was automatic. He could not be bothered to remember.

“Where were you shooting?” Ramsay asked.

“On our land. Nowhere near a footpath. No law against that, is there?”

“Could you have seen the road from where you were?”

“No.”

“What about Laverock Farm?”

“Yeah, I was over that way. I had a view down on the farm.”

“Did you see anyone about?”

“Only that hippy couple. They walked down the track and on to the road. They started walking towards town, hitching.”

“Did anyone give them a lift?”

“Not that I saw.”

They would be on their way into Mittingford to have lunch with their friends. That part of the story fitted in.

“Have you had any dealings with Miss Jackman and Mr. Slater?” he asked the older man.

“The travellers? No. He came round asking for work when he first arrived but I told him we had nothing. Not that I’d have taken him on anyway.”

“Why?”

Richardson seemed not to think that worth answering.

“You didn’t ever meet them socially?”

“No. They seem an unfriendly pair. Keep themselves to themselves.”

That, Ramsay thought, was hardly surprising.

“You see the lad about, though. Walking. All times of day and night. I don’t think he’s quite all right in the head.” He paused, before adding reluctantly, “Never caused any bother, though. Keeps to the footpaths.”

“Did you see him on your land over the weekend?”

There was a pause. “I can’t remember,” Richardson said at last. “He’s around so often that I don’t notice him any more, if you know what I mean. You take him for granted.”

Chapter Seven

Mittingford police station was built in the same overblown style as the Old Chapel and stood close to it in the High Street with a view from the back down to the river. It too had the air of a building which had become redundant. Now it was only manned at all as a gesture to rural policing. Everyone knew it was being run down in preparation for closure. Stone steps led to a grand doorway but inside it was shabby, gloomy and overheated.

Hunter was lording it in the incident room, irritating his colleagues on the team and putting up the backs of the locals.

“They say we can use this …” he told Ramsay, looking around him disparagingly. “I suppose it’s better than nowt. Just.”

It had been some sort of storeroom and a line of men in shirt sleeves were carrying out boxes, piles of rubbish. In time it would be transformed into a modern incident room with computer terminals and phone lines. Now it was dusty and depressing. Hunter was perched on the windowsill, supervising. He was in his element.

“I’ve sent Sal Wedderburn to check the hippies’ alibi for Sunday,” Hunter said. “The Abbots both work at the Alternative Therapy

Centre at the Old Chapel. She’s gone to talk to them there. It’s not really relevant now, though. The pathologist’s just phoned with his first impressions. Bowles was killed between 8 p.m. Saturday evening and 8 a.m. Sunday morning. He’ll try to narrow it down but he’s quite certain that the old man was dead by the time Jackman and Slater went off for their Sunday lunch.”

“Yes,” Ramsay said absentmindedly. “Thanks.” So Bowles had had a visitor on Saturday night. He’d either brought a companion back with him in the Land-Rover at ten o’clock or someone had called to the farm later. Surely not on foot at that time. He should have asked Lily if she’d heard another vehicle. It was a blow that the farmyard wasn’t visible from the road. They’d have been able to ask passing motorists if they’d seen a strange car parked there.

“We’ll need to find somewhere to stay,” he said. “Somewhere big enough to take the whole team.”

“I’ve phoned around,” Hunter said. “The pub seems the best bet. The Blue Bell.”

In Hunter’s opinion the pub usually was the best bet.

“Isn’t that where Bowles had his scrap with the Richardson lad?” Ramsay asked. “We’ll need to find witnesses of that.”

“How did you get on with the Richardsons?”

Ramsay shrugged. “No love lost between them and Bowles,” he said. “Apparently Ernie was threatening to have a New Age festival on his land. Richardson takes in well-heeled paying guests and wasn’t best pleased.”

“Can’t bloody blame him either,” Hunter said. “Strange that Jackman and Slater didn’t mention it …”

“Perhaps they didn’t know. I had the impression that Bowles only dreamed up the idea to annoy his neighbours.”

In a corner a telephone rang. The middle-aged constable they had met at the farm was staggering under the weight of a manual typewriter which might have been there before the war. He rested the typewriter against a scratched filing cabinet to take the call.

“There’s been a message for you from Otterbridge,” he said. “Can you call them back? As soon as you can?”

He took the strain of the typewriter again, swore under his breath and went on down the corridor without a word.

“By, he’s a happy soul, isn’t he?” Hunter said. “You’d think he’d be glad of the excitement. Make a change from sheep rustling and incest.”

“I don’t suppose he joined the force to be a removal man,” Ramsay said mildly.

“I’ll make that phone call then, shall I?” Hunter said. “Find out what the panic is. I’ll try and find a phone away from all this bloody noise.”

He wandered off. Ramsay stared in at the chaos and wondered if all this effort would be unnecessary in the end. Perhaps the forensic team would find fingerprints of some local villains, kids perhaps, misled by the rumours of Cissie Bowles’s money. A robbery that had gone wrong and turned into murder when Ernie got home early and disturbed them. But he didn’t think it would work out like that. There’d been no sign of a breakin and kids wouldn’t strangle. They’d lash out with a knife or a heavy object, might even have got hold of a gun. Plenty of shotguns out here in the wilds. But they wouldn’t get close enough to strangle.

No, Ramsay thought, this wouldn’t be over quickly. There’d be time enough for his team to make themselves at home here. They’d bring a kettle and jars of coffee and powdered milk. Someone would start a tea fund. By the end of the investigation there’d probably be potted plants on the windowsills and posters on the walls. If there ever was a successful end.

Hunter bounced in, full of himself and his news.

“There’s been a development.” he said. “We know where Bowles was on Saturday night.” He paused. Ramsay waited patiently. Hunter would make the most of the drama. “He met a woman, in the Ship in Otterbridge. She saw the report of his death on the teatime news and she got in touch.”

“Who is she?”

“Name of Jane Symons,” Hunter said. “A divorcee.” He made the word sound almost pornographic.

“Were they having an affair?” Because that was what Hunter was suggesting.

“I haven’t got the details,” Hunter admitted. “The lads at Otterbridge took a statement. They’d have sent it by fax but there’s no machine here yet. I’ve got her address, though, if you want to see her.”

He certainly wanted to see her. His imagination was working overtime.

“Where does she live?”

“Otterbridge. The Orchard Park estate. You never know what goes on behind those net curtains, do you?” The Orchard Park was a respectable, middle-class development on the edge of the town.

Ramsay looked at his watch. It was six-thirty. He still hadn’t phoned Prue to cancel their evening out. He realized suddenly that he hadn’t eaten all day. He found this new development frustrating. He felt that it was a distraction and that the root of the evidence against Ernie Bowles lay here, in the hills. He hesitated, wondering if he could send Hunter on his own, came to the conclusion that that would be a mistake.

“Give me half an hour,” he said. “You can confirm the arrangements at the pub if you like. We’ll come back here tonight so we can make an early start in the morning.” And get a feel for the place, he thought. Listen to the gossip. Find out who else hated Ernie Bowles.

When he phoned Prue she was disappointed but understanding, which was more than he could have hoped for.

“I expect I’ll be here for a few days,” he said. At least. I’ll phone you.”

“I suppose I’ll get used to your sudden disappearances,” she said and he experienced the warmth he always felt when she spoke of them having a future together. He never took that for granted. “But don’t think I like it.”

He told her that he didn’t like it either.

DC Sally Wedderburn decided that Gordon Hunter got right up her nose. Dishing out the orders as if he was the boss. Arrogant sod. He was good looking, she supposed, if you liked that rather greasy Mediterranean type, and she had to admit he had a nice arse, but it was about time someone put him in his place.

In contrast Daniel Abbot was charming. When she arrived at the Old Chapel he had just finished with his last patient. He took her into his room and asked his receptionist to make them tea. He was still wearing his white coat and she realized she’d always fancied medical men.

“I’ll need a statement,” she said. “Just a formality. You had heard about Mr. Bowles?”

“Yes. One of my patients told me …”

“Miss Jackman and Mr. Slater have told us that they spent Sunday with you.”

“Well, not all Sunday. They arrived in time for lunch. Later Lily went to Magda’s group. I

suppose Sean went straight home.”

“Magda’s group?”

“Magda Pocock. My mother-in-law. You may have heard of her.”

Sally shook her head and he seemed disappointed by her ignorance.

“She’s a great practitioner. A wonderful woman.”

Sally had the impression the epitaphs came automatically.

“She runs a workshop for some of her clients here at the Centre on Sunday afternoons. Lily was definitely at that. Magda mentioned it later.”

Sally prepared a short statement, which he signed a little impatiently. “I’m sorry to hurry you,” he said, ‘but I’ve an appointment tonight. I have to be in Otterbridge by seven-thirty. There’s a lecture by an old teacher of mine at the college. It would be unforgivable to be late.” Even at the time it seemed strange to her that Daniel Abbot felt the need to give her so many details of his evening out. Later, it would become positively suspicious.