by Jan Newton
‘That’ll be the job, Sir. It doesn’t leave much time for anything else, does it?’ She grinned, pleased at the slight vindication of her obsession with work in the light of last night’s discussion.
Swift parked the Volvo neatly in the designated place and pulled on the handbrake, rattling the ratchets and setting Julie’s teeth on edge.
‘I wasn’t entirely fair with you last night,’ he admitted. ‘I made it sound as though I don’t care enough about work. But sometimes I do wish I had a nine-to-five that I could forget about once the front door closed. A job that didn’t wake you up thinking about the awful things people can do to each other.’
‘No way, you’d miss it too much. We’d both be hopeless in a normal job.’
‘I’m feeling more than a bit hopeless in this one too, just at the minute, Julie.’
‘Give it time, Sir. So, what are you thinking about these mysterious blokes then? If the locals are to be believed and they only leave this place under some sort of supervision, could they be being held here against their will, maybe?’
Swift grunted. ‘I wouldn’t rule it out totally. There have been a couple of horrendous cases in rural areas in the past couple of years. People living in worse conditions than the animals and working for a pittance.’
‘Are we talking about slaves here then?’
‘Let’s keep an open mind shall we, Julie. I can’t really imagine that happening somewhere like this, can you? Besides,’ he rocked himself out of the car, ‘there could be all manner of innocent explanations for it, couldn’t there?’
Mrs Wilkinson was charm personified. From the mass of silver-streaked curls which had been sculpted into a pristine bob, right down to the knee-length suede and leather stable boots in fetching shades of chestnut, Julie could tell that she was entirely happy with her recently improved financial fortune and the easy confidence which it bestowed
‘Good morning. I’m afraid we don’t buy anything on the doorstep, but if you’d like to leave your literature, I’m sure we’ll get back to you if we –.’
‘Mid Wales Police,’ Swift said ‘I wonder if we could have a few minutes of your time?’
Mrs Wilkinson inspected both warrant cards in turn. ‘And how might I be able to help you, Inspector?’
‘This is very impressive,’ Julie said, her gaze taking in the full panorama of hill farm tamed to within an inch of its life. ‘How long have you lived here?’
‘We’ve been here almost ten years now. We inherited it from an ancient aunt of my husband’s. It didn’t look like this when she lived here though.’ Mrs Wilkinson wrinkled her lightly freckled nose and grimaced delicately. ‘It was almost derelict when I first set eyes on it.’
‘You must have worked very hard on it after the old lady’s death,’ Swift said. Julie spotted the insinuation, but the lady of the house was, it seemed, oblivious. ‘Indeed. My husband was made aware that I would only relocate from Hereford once the place was actually habitable.’
‘It must have been quite a way to come and visit the old lady, from Hereford,’ Swift mused – to himself, apparently.
‘Have you made any progress at all in identifying the poor soul on the Monks’ Trod?’ Mrs Wilkinson smiled but it was, thought Julie, as cosmetic as the rest of this place. ‘I hear you’re still struggling.’
‘How many staff do you have here, Mrs…’ Julie consulted her notebook and looked up with a smile, ‘Wilkinson?’
‘We have a farm secretary of course, and there’s a manager who is responsible for the herd.’
‘Herd?’
‘The alpacas.’
‘Ah, right.’ Julie wrote slowly and deliberately in her notebook. ‘And there are others, of course. You must have an army of help with a place this size. How many acres do you own, Mrs Wilkinson?’
‘I think it’s around eight hundred hectares.’
‘So what would that be in old money?’ Swift asked.
‘Two thousand acres, give or take,’ Mrs Wilkinson supplied.
Julie whistled through her teeth. ‘So who else do you have working here?’
Mrs Wilkinson paused, twisted her wedding ring a couple of times and sighed. ‘Yes, we do have other staff.’
‘How many?’ Julie asked.
‘It varies, but at the moment there are three of them.’
‘And do they live here on site, or do they live locally?’
‘The three men live here, the secretary and the manager live in Rhayader.’ For the first time, Mrs Wilkinson seemed irritated by Julie’s questions, which had obviously struck a nerve. ‘And why exactly do you need to know our domestic arrangements, Sergeant? I wasn’t aware you intended to question me. I think perhaps I need to phone my husband.’
‘It’s nothing to worry about, Mrs Wilkinson.’ Swift’s tone was courteous. ‘We’re asking everyone locally about what happened over on the Monks’ Trod.’ He smiled. ‘I assume you’ve heard all the details?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Mrs Wilkinson appeared mollified. ‘Terrible business. But I’m sure nobody here will be able to help you.’
‘So the three men who live here with you, would it be possible for us to speak to them, just so that we can eliminate them from our enquiries?’ Julie asked.
‘You’re not serious?’
‘It’s routine in a case like this.’
‘Then I think I should phone my husband.’ Mrs Wilkinson slid a mobile phone from her pocket.
‘I’m surprised you have a signal up here,’ Swift said. ‘You don’t have a landline, do you?’
Mrs Wilkinson gave a mirthless, brittle laugh. ‘We don’t get anything at all up here, Inspector. We have a generator and an array of solar panels for electricity, our water is pumped from a borehole and all communication uses satellite. So we have every piece of modern technology available to drag us into the twenty-first century.’ She walked away from them and spoke quietly into her phone. Neither Swift nor Kite could make out what she said.
‘She seems a bit edgy, wouldn’t you say?’ Julie watched as Mrs Wilkinson’s body language became more animated, even from the back.
Swift shrugged. ‘Maybe she’s just not used to dealing with the police.’
Mrs Wilkinson thrust the phone back into her pocket and crossed the polished pale oak flooring back to where Swift and Kite were waiting. ‘My husband says the men are out on the hill, shearing the last of the hoggs and are unlikely to be back on the yard until this evening.’
‘Would it be possible to see their accommodation?’ Julie’s face was wide-eyed innocence, but Mrs Wilkinson frowned.
‘So that’s it, is it? You’ve heard the rumours circulating in the valley? No doubt our upstanding neighbours have delighted in imparting their thoughts about us.’
‘What rumours would they be then, Mrs Wilkinson?’ Swift’s expression was bland, but Julie noticed that his gaze never left Mrs Wilkinson’s face. ‘We haven’t heard anything have we, Sergeant?’
‘I don’t think so, Sir.’
‘Well then,’ Swift said. ‘Perhaps you would be kind enough to show us where these men are living.’
Mrs Wilkinson blushed, turned on her heel and walked smartly from the room. Swift and Kite followed her out into the hallway, through the kitchen and out into a yard at the back of the house, which was hidden from the drive. By the stream and backing onto the rock wall stood a dilapidated caravan. Swift and Kite exchanged knowing looks.
‘How long have the men been here?’ Swift asked.
‘It varies. Some stay longer than others, it just depends on how they get on.’
‘So you have a high rate of staff turnover, then?’
‘We can do, but then we see that as a positive, Inspector.’
Julie frowned. ‘Surely you’d want them to stay for as long as possible?’
They walked past the caravan and turned into an even smaller yard, lined either side by a row of stables. At least, one side was still stables, but the right-hand building had been pain
ted white, and the doors were no longer wide enough for equine occupants. There were six doors, painted in primary colours, which gave the low building a beach-hut feel. Mrs Wilkinson took a bunch of keys from her belt and, walking along the block as far as the fourth, royal blue door, she opened the Yale lock.
Julie stifled a gasp. The floors were the same light oak as the house, with brightly patterned woollen rugs. There was a living room with a small settee and coffee and dining table and chairs, a tiny kitchen and an equally tiny but beautifully fitted bathroom. The French doors at the back led onto a decking patio with views of the rock wall, the stream and away down the valley.
‘I’m assuming this isn’t quite what you were expecting?’
It was Julie’s turn to blush. ‘Not exactly.’
‘This one isn’t occupied, but the others are identical. I would have to ask permission before letting you see inside, obviously.’
‘Obviously,’ nodded Swift. ‘So these men, the workers, they’re free to come and go as they please?’
Mrs Wilkinson ushered them towards the door and locked it behind them. ‘They are.’ She hooked the keys back onto her belt. ‘But many of them choose not to drive, if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘Why on earth would you want to live all the way out here and choose not to drive?’ Julie said.
Mrs Wilkinson smiled. ‘I can see that you and I feel the same way about splendid isolation, Sergeant. I couldn’t imagine not driving, but,’ her smile faded and she shook her head, ‘some people don’t have the choice.’ She gestured for them to walk back past the caravan and towards the house. ‘We have always tried to protect them from gossip and tittle-tattle, but my husband is adamant that I should tell you why they are here.’
Swift and Kite stopped walking and turned back to look at her. ‘Go on,’ Swift said.
‘The three of them are ex-servicemen. Two served in Afghanistan and the third, well, I’m not sure I’m at liberty to tell you where he served.’
‘So your husband is a military man, is he?’ Swift asked.
‘He was. And he saw first-hand what can happen to soldiers who are no longer needed by the government. We’ve been doing this for years, making our own tiny contribution to the mess that is left behind after conflict.’
‘What is it, exactly, that you do, Mrs Wilkinson?’ Julie’s tone was conciliatory and when Mrs Wilkinson replied, the superior edge had disappeared from her voice.
‘It all began just as a favour for a friend, an ex-colleague from my husband’s army days. Howard was in Swansea when he saw a man begging in the town centre. He was obviously homeless and starving, wrapped in layers and layers of putrid clothing, filthy and shivering with the cold. People were pretending they couldn’t see him, as they do.’ Mrs Wilkinson shook her head and sighed through her nose. Her lips were a tight line. ‘They send money to all sorts of dubious charities they see advertised on afternoon television and there are people out there on our streets struggling to survive every day.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Sorry. It’s a hobby horse of mine.’ She laughed and her whole countenance was transformed. ‘Or one of them. Anyway, Howard put a ten-pound note in the man’s paper cup. The man didn’t say anything, but it was as Howard bent down to pat the little dog beside him that he heard the man sobbing quietly. As Howard turned to him he realised that this old homeless man with tears running down his grimy cheeks was a thirty-two year old sergeant from his old battalion.’ Mrs Wilkinson blinked and looked up at the ceiling.
‘That must have been a shock for your husband,’ Swift’s hand hovered over the pocket containing his handkerchief, but it wasn’t required. Mrs Wilkinson cleared her throat and shook her head as if to dispel the vision.
‘What did he do?’ Julie asked.
Mrs Wilkinson shrugged. ‘What else could he do? Howard brought him home with him. He was in a terrible state, and not just physically. We cleaned him up and fed him and once he was stronger, he said he wanted to repay us for what we’d done for him. He worked for us here for three years, until he was back on his feet. He wouldn’t accept any money from us, but we put his wages away for him in a bank account, and when he was ready to move on he had a little money behind him.’
Julie shook her head. ‘How had he ended up like that? Was it PTSD?’
Mrs Wilkinson nodded. ‘It’s a terrible thing. Some of them never come to terms with what they’ve seen in combat, or the fact that they survived and others didn’t. His family had tried so hard to understand and make allowances for his problems, but he had two small boys and his wife just couldn’t cope with his mood swings and irrational behaviour around the children.
Julie’s notebook was forgotten. ‘So there have been others since, and you’ve managed to help them all?’
‘Sadly not all of them, Sergeant. One or two are no longer with us. The second lad, Patrick, he came back from Afghanistan with PTSD. His best friend trod on an IED right in front of him. They managed to mend Patrick’s wounds, but they didn’t cure his mental health. He couldn’t sleep because of the nightmares. He started drinking heavily and then progressed onto heroin. Gradually he lost his job, his wife and his home.’
‘And you tried to help him?’
Mrs Wilkinson attempted to quell her tears once again, but admitted defeat, and Swift’s handkerchief was accepted gratefully. ‘We couldn’t save him. We took him in, we tried to get help for him, but we failed him. Nobody wants to know, you see. And then one Friday night he walked in front of an InterCity express outside Doncaster, when his wife was too frightened of him to let him see his own children.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Swift said. ‘I can’t imagine how you must have felt.’
‘We still do, Inspector.’ Mrs Wilkinson stopped outside the front door of the farmhouse and passed the handkerchief back to Swift.
‘Can you vouch for them all?’
Mrs Wilkinson turned to Julie and shook her head. ‘You really should be less cynical, Sergeant. Yes, I would swear that the three who are with us now know nothing about what happened out there. They would have told us. If you really must interview them, then could I suggest that you call back this evening when my husband and the men will be here?’
‘Thank you for your time and your candour,’ Swift said. ‘If you think of anything which might be of interest to us in the meantime, then please let us know. Otherwise, shall we say we’ll be back for a chat at seven o’clock this evening then?’
Mrs Wilkinson nodded and ushered them towards the winding path between the patriotic annuals, then she slipped through the front door and closed it rather firmly behind her.
They followed the path through the gate and headed for the Volvo.
‘Well that was a bit bonkers, Sir, not what I was expecting at all.’
‘It’s not the word I would have chosen.’
‘People never stop surprising you, do they?’ Julie looked back at the immaculate garden and the pristine house. ‘So what do we do about the three men?’
‘I think, given that you live over this way, if you’ve nothing planned for this evening, you could come back and have a quick word with the husband and the three lads, just to see if there’s anything we should be following up.’ Swift scratched his ear. ‘But at least now we know why the locals think they act a bit strangely.’
‘I wonder why they don’t drive?’
Swift dropped into the driver’s seat and put his key in the ignition. ‘Who knows, Julie. They could be on medication, I suppose, or maybe they just don’t feel up to driving, one way or another. PTSD can be very debilitating.’
‘So just the usual questions then?’
‘For now, at least.’
‘Names and home addresses?’
Swift paused with his hand on the Volvo’s gear lever. ‘See what they say first. We don’t want them scurrying away anywhere. Keep it light.’
The road passed through the shade of tall trees and ended in an abrupt T-junction.
‘So that’s us ba
ck in Rhayader then, Sir.’
Swift drew a sharp intake of breath. ‘Don’t let the locals hear you say that, Julie. This is Cwm Deuddwr; Rhayader doesn’t start until… here.’ They crossed the bridge spanning the River Wye and up into the traffic on West Street. Swift indicated right and waited for the inevitable minuetting confusion caused by the congruence of four roads round a clock tower, which seemed to be causing the driver of an oil tanker considerable logistical difficulties.
‘It’s easy enough once you get used to it,’ Swift said, in answer to Julie’s look. The tanker reversed, and with much signalling of headlights to oncoming traffic, it rounded the clock tower on the wrong side of the road and headed away, honking thanks, along East Street.
‘People are so patient,’ Julie said. ‘I’m not sure that would work in Manchester at all.’
‘Not everyone’s patient, Julie, truth be told. We have more than our fair share of fatal accidents on these roads, but on the whole I agree with you. I like to think we still know how to respect others, most of the time.’