‘Have you got some early lambs?’ he said.
‘Aye, I’m helping out Rod Whittaker — he’s the lad who owns the land here now. He’s got fifty head of ewes indoors/
‘We’ve a few routine questions, sir,’ said Fry, who had learned to ignore agricultural conversations that she didn’t understand.
‘Oh, ave?’ said Malkin. ‘You’ll have to come to the lambing
VO
shed with me, then.’
‘Where?’
‘This way. I can’t leave ‘em for long/
They followed Malkin round the side of the house, through a gate and past a large steel shed with sliding doors that had been left open on their runners. Inside, there was a big articulated DAP lorry, parked next to a powerful Renault tractor with a snowplough blade attachment on the front.
“I take it that’s your friend’s truck/ said Cooper.
‘Aye, he keeps the wagon here/
‘And the tractor?’
‘Rod has to get work where he can - when it snows like this, he can’t run the big wagon, but the council pays him to clear the roads around here, so he doesn’t lose out. He can’t afford not to have any money coming in — he has a family to keep. Contract haulage is almost as dodgy as farming, but he’ll make
oov o?
a go of it/
Behind the shed, they walked across a farmyard towards another building.
‘Rod grazes his flock on these fields here. That grass comes up in the spring like little green rockets. He can afford to lamb the ewes early - he gets a good start with them/
‘You’ve split up the farm and kept the farmhouse for yourself,’ said Cooper. ‘So where does Mr Whittaker live?’
‘Up the far end of the village,’ said Malkin. ‘It was my dad who sold off the land, when he couldn’t keep the farm going any more. You could get a good price for land then, and it was enough. Rod has the land and these buildings here. Of course, he has the contract haulage business as well. That’s why he can’t be here to see to the ewes all the
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time. But he can’t afford to pay for hired help, and he knows I don’t mind.’
‘You’ll have lambed a tew in your time, I bet,’ said Cooper.
‘Aye, a fair few.’
They entered the shed. It was much warmer than outside, and it was half-full of steel pens containing black-faced ewes. Cooper breathed in the warm smells of animals and straw. But Fry looked at the sheep and drew away.
‘This isn’t a very suitable place. Can we go back to the house?’ she said.
‘This lot arc in the middle of lambing — you can sec that,’ said Malkin. Fry gazed blankly at the sheep. Cooper knew she could see nothing more than some mutton chops and several nice Sunday roasts milling about in the shed.
‘They look all right to me,’ she said.
‘They can’t be left to their own devices. Ask me your questions here.’
‘All right. Do you recognize this man?’ said Fry, producing the photograph of Nick Easton.
‘It’s no use showing me that — I haven’t got my glasses on.’
‘Well, where are they?’
‘Back at the house, where I need them.’
‘For goodness’ sake!’
‘I don’t plan my day around you lot turning up, you know.
Fry took a deep breath. Cooper could see her face twist as she drew in all the smells of sheep droppings and straw and sour milk.
‘We’re enquiring about a man called Sergeant Nick Easton. Docs the name mean anything to you?’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘He worked (or the Royal Air Force.’
‘Oh,’ said Malkin. ‘Is it to do with the complaint?’
‘What complaint?’
‘About the low flying. There were some jet fighters came over here so low they almost knocked the chimney tops off. They frightened the sheep to death. Rod put in a complaint about it. He says he might be able to get compensation.’
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Fry stared at him. Then she looked at Cooper.
‘I think you’d have to prove the aircraft caused some damage or injury to the sheep/ he said. ‘Did any of the ewes lose their lambs?’
‘It’s nothing to do with that at all,’ said Fry.
‘He’s in the RAF, though?’ Malkin said. ‘He looks like he’s in uniform in that photo. I can make out the blue, and the cap.’
‘Yes, but you might have seen him in civilian clothes,’ said Fry.
Malkin shrugged. ‘Like I said without my glasses …’
‘Has anybody been here from the RAF recently? Or phoned you, maybe?’
‘Not that I know ol/ said Malkin. ‘But I don’t always answer the phone.’
‘Your name was on a list of people Sergeant Easton was planning to visit. Can you think of any reason why that should be?’
‘No.’
‘Does the name Lukasz mean anything to you?’
Malkin seemed to tense a little. Before he could answer, a ewe in a nearby pen went down on its knees and began bellowing. Malkin turned towards it.
‘It’s all right,’ said Cooper. ‘Carry on/ And Malkin nodded at him, accepting his help without question as he handed over a spare pair of overalls.
Fry watched in amazement as Cooper took off his waxed coat and pulled the overalls over his clothes. She almost missed Malkin’s next sentence.
‘Lukasz. It rings a bell, that name. Something to do with the RAF, is it?’
‘You tell me/ said Fry.
Out of the corner of her eye, she was aware that Cooper had climbed into the pen with the noisy ewe. The bellowing continued. It was the full-throated roar of childbirth. Fry couldn’t shut out the noise, but she was trying to ignore what Cooper was doing as he bent down at the rear end of the sheep. Whatever it was, it made the sheep’s eyes roll and its scream become even louder.
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‘Run. what the hell arc you doing?’
1./ b
‘There’s a foot turned back,’ said Cooper. ‘Have you got a hit of baler hand, sir?’
‘Aye, on the. pen side/ said Malkin.
Fry watched Cooper take a length of what looked like bright blue string, dip it in soapy water and fold it into a loop.
Cooper bent down again. Fry still didn’t know exactly what he was doing, but she was quite sure it wasn’t a usual occupation for a detective conducting an interview.
o
‘Ah, here we come,’ said Cooper, his voice strained with exertion.
There was a squelching sound, the sudden splash of fluids emptying into the straw, and the ewe fell silent. But then there was another noise. It was only a faint coughing, like the sound of a tiny child with something caught in its throat. It was followed by a sneeze. And Fry suddenly found she was desperate to see what was happening in there.
Malkin turned back towards her. ‘The only thing I can think
VC
of is that he might have been an old airman. Polish, maybe, w’ith that name? You should try old Walter Rowland. He used to be in the RAF. Rut that’s years and years ago.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Fry impatiently.
‘Here, don’t you want to know this? I thought you had to ask some questions.’
She could hear Cooper rustling in the straw, muttering to the sheep, crooning like some demented goatherd.
‘It’s a ewe lamb,’ he said.
‘Aye, that’s good,’ said Malkin, without looking round. ‘Single, is it?’
‘I’ll tell you in a minute.’
Fry couldn’t see anything except for Ren Cooper’s back in the blue overalls. She tried to edge towards the pen, but Malkin was in her way.
‘Any road,’ he said, ‘I don t know what else I can tell you. What else do you want to know? I don’t understand what all this business is about the RAF.’
‘Oh, shush!’ she said.
Now a distinct high-pitched squeak came from somewhere in
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the wet straw. Fry leaned over to get a glimpse of something Hark and wet, which hadn’t keen there a few seconds before. It was a creature with tiny, thin legs splayed in the straw and a head that was too big for its body. She watched in amazement as it began to struggle to its feet, wobbling dangerously, with its cars folded on to its head as it tried to get its balance. Although its eyes could hardly focus, its mouth was puckered and it was trying to move forward towards its mother. It had been in the world for only thirty seconds.
‘Good, strong lamb,’ said Cooper. ‘We’ll just get her suckling.’
‘Where?’ said Fry.
‘From her mother’s teats, where else?’
‘It’s too small. It won’t be able to reach,’ she said. ‘Will it?’
‘Don’t you believe it.’
Within a few moments, the lamb had reached up and found a teat and was butting strongly with its head at its mother’s belly. The ewe curved its neck and sniffed and licked at the lamb, which wagged its tail like a puppy.
‘Look at it,’ said Fry.
‘A new life coming into the world,’ said Cooper. ‘It’s always a bit of a special moment.’
‘I can never sec it often enough,’ said Malkin, and they exchanger! a meaningful look that Fry couldn’t interpret, but which excluded her from its meaning.
‘Have we hnishcd?’ Cooper asked her, unbuttoning his overall.
‘Er, yeah,’ she said, though she barely felt able to drag herself away from the lambing pen.
‘If Mr Malkin remembers anything, I’m sure he’ll contact us.’
Fry took the hint and presented Malkin with her Derbyshire Constabulary business card. Malkin took it between his thumb and forefinger, so as not to stain it. The card was white and shiny and pristine, and it looked as out of place in the lambing shed as if it had been an alien artefact from Mars.
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Diane Fry walked back to the car while Ben Cooper asked to wash his hands. Malkin tapped him on the shoulder before he left. ‘You’re not a had lad/ he said. ‘I reckon you live on your own, am I right?’
‘How on earth can you tell?’
Malkin gave him a sly wink. ‘Like they say, it takes one to spot one. Have you got a good-sized pocket inside that coat? I het you have.’
‘Yes.’
‘Stick this in it then. It’s very fresh - you’ll just have to clean it.’
He pushed a parcel wrapped in newspaper into Cooper’s hand. Cooper felt at it for long enough to he sure that it wasn’t a couple of kilos of crack cocaine or an illegal weapon he was being handed.
“I don’t think J can take it,’ he .said.
‘Don’t be daft, lad. There’s no harm in it. But don’t tell your sergeant, eh? She wouldn’t understand.’
Malkin winked at him again. Cooper was aware of Uianc Fry waiting for him outside, but he was also conscious of the need to preserve this man’s goodwill if he was going to get at his memories.
‘I can only take it if I pav you something for it, Mr
v1 v ť O ‘
Malkin,’ he said.
‘Well, if you must. Fifty pence will do.’
Cooper dug out a fifty-pence piece. Living was proving cheap, so far. And he even knew how to prepare and cook rabbit. He and Randy would have a good supper from it.
‘Ihat’s all open and above board then,’ said Malkin, and winked again.
o
When the two detectives had gone, George Malkin went straight back to the sheep. He had to spread iodine on the navels of the newest lambs to stop them getting infections through their cords. And at the far end of the shed, there was another job he had to do, which he had postponed when the police arrived. The woman sergeant wouldn’t have liked it much, and he had been reluctant to let them see what was in his
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pocket, the thing that he had gone to letch from the house when they arrived.
Malkin enjoyed looking after the ewes. He was glad to be of use, happy to be working at his old job again lor a short while. He had lambed hundreds of sheep in his time, and there was no need for anyone to tell him what to do. He could work alone, with his own thoughts for company. His help during the day meant that Rod Whittaker could go off to work on his driving job and take over in the shed when he came home in the evening.
He felt sorrv for Rod. struggling to make a go of it. Farming
J‘ OO O O O
was in the lad’s blood, but he had no monev to go into it propcrlv, and little hope of making enough profit from his sheep to earn a living. Trying to get into farming was no life for a man now. Rod would be a lorry driver for the rest of his days, forced into earning his living some other way. Every morning, when he set off for work, he looked tired and bleary-eyed from a night dozing uncomfortably in the lambing shed.
Shortly before the police had arrived, one lamb had been born dead. Across the aisle, another ewe had produced two and was rejecting the second, refusing to allow it to feed. The tiny lamb was bleating, but its mother repeatedly butted it away in favour of its larger, stronger sibling, which was sucking vigorously at the teats.
Neither the dead lamb nor the rejected one was unusual, and Malkin knew exactly what he had to do. The fleece had to be skinned from the dead lamb and tied round the body of the rejected one, to give it the right smell for the bereaved ewre to accept it as her own. It was the old way, but the best one. The sheep were stupid they never knew that they’d been fooled.
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24
JJianc Fry sat rigid and silent in the passenger seat of the Toyota on the way back from Harrop. Hen Cooper wanted to tell her that she had some straw sticking to her hair, hut he daren’t say anything. They were almost in Edendale before he felt her start to relax a little. It seemed to be the street lamps that did it, and the appearance of houses and petrol stations, with more light from their security systems and lorecourts.
‘We could try the Lukasxcs, Dianc,’ said Cooper. ‘Or do you want to wait until morning?’
Fry shook herself. ‘Let’s do it now. It could be too late in the morning.’
‘OK.’
When they drove down Woodland Crescent, they found the Lukasz bungalow in darkness, and the BMW missing from the drive. Cooper rang the bell anyway.
‘No luck,’ he said.
‘Damn. It’ll have to be the morning then. I suppose we ought to have known that some people have better things to do on a Sunday evening.’
‘Hold on, what time is it?’ said Cooper. ‘Five o’clock? I know where they’ll be.’
‘You do?’
‘Their op/afgA dinner was due to start an hour ago. They’ll all be down at the Dom Kombatanta.’
The Polish community seemed to be fond of their events. While they waited, Ben Cooper read the notices inside the entrance to the club. There was an Easter dinner in April, followed by something called the Katyn Day of Remembrance, which was celebrated by a Mass and wreath laying. Then 3rd May was Polish Constitution Day, with another Mass and a parade of standards. Cooper wondered if Zygmunt would be on parade for that day,
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with other members of the exservicemen’s organization, the Stowarzyszenie Polskich Kombatantow w W Brytanii.
They had found someone working in the kitchen and asked them to take a message to Peter Lukasz, being reluctant to interrupt the event they could hear taking place through some double doors in the main hall.
‘That’s Peter Lukasz. Not Zygmunt Lukasz.’
Then Cooper noticed the final event on the spring calendar — the annual general meeting of the SPK itself, to be held at Dom Kombatanta. A poor turnout seemed almost to be accepted. The time of the AGM was set for 4 p.m., but underneath it was stated: T^tncre is no quorum, taste IGAf wi7 6e^in at 4. JO p.m. in any caie. It gave Cooper a picture of the SPK — former soldiers and airmen, bent old warriors proud of the medals pinned to the breast pockets of their suits, some of them wearing their paratroopers’ berets and their white eagle badg
es. But there were so few of them that they could no longer guarantee a quorum for a meeting once a year, acknowledging that death and illness would have intervened during the past twelve months.
He had seen them before, or old men just like them, lining up at the cenotaph every Remembrance Day. Rut their numbers were dwindling each year, as if it were only the fading memories of their sacrifice that had sustained them until now. Some of those taking part in the parade last year had looked so fragile and translucent that they could have been an illusion, anyway. Perhaps they existed only because of the public’s belief in them, like Tinkcrbell or Santa Claus.
‘Peter says why don’t you go through,’ said the woman from the kitchen.
Diane Fry was still reluctant. ‘Oh, but …’
‘He says you’re quite welcome tonight.’
Fry walked into the hall. Cooper hesitated in the doorway before following her. It was a strange feeling that he experienced, as if he were about to step into a foreign country. No - not a foreign country, but some kind of parallel universe where it was still England, but the people in it weren’t English.
On the surface, the surroundings were familiar. It was a plain hall with a wooden floor and a stage, with a small bar to one side.
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The pumps and optics behind the bar looked like thousands of others, but the lettering on the bottles didn’t make any sense. In
O y
the middle of the room were tables covered in white tablecloths and laden with cutlery and floral centrepieces. It could have been the Rdendalc old folks’ Christmas party. It could have been the tennis club dinner, or a gathering of the Caledonian Society for Burns Night. The people sitting at the tables looked and sounded like any group of Derbyshire folk enjoying themselves except that these people were speaking a language Cooper didn’t understand. Their voices were raised, yet he couldn’t make out the meaning of a single word. There were a lot of children here, too. Their presence gave a different atmosphere.
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