08.Dying to Sin

by Stephen Booth

  The post office in the next village was open for business only from eleven a.m. to one p.m. on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays. Like so many rural post offices, it was operating what were officially called ‘satellite hours’. Villagers here were lucky – many areas had lost their facilities altogether. But, since this was Friday, it was no less closed.

  Most of the buildings seemed to be either holiday cottages or offering B&B. They were deserted in mid-winter, dormant and empty, awaiting an influx of tourists in the spring, their owners praying there wouldn’t be a repeat of 2001, when the foot and mouth outbreak had destroyed their business.

  The only other notable feature in the village was a farming heritage centre, which looked quite a new development. An interesting avenue of diversification, preserving the heritage instead of farming.

  ‘Any other suggestions?’ asked Murfin.

  Cooper unfolded a map of the Rakedale area. ‘There’s another farm up the road, away from the village. We oughtn’t to miss that.’

  ‘I’ve been given the name of a retired bobby who lives near here,’ said Fry. ‘Palfreyman, he’s called. Now, if he’s an old-style copper, he could be a very good bet to know all about the Suttons. Well, as much as anyone here does.’

  ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘Hollowbrook Cottage, the landlord of the pub said. It should be up this same road.’

  ‘I see it,’ said Cooper, with his finger on the map. ‘We can do both together quite easily.’

  ‘You know what? I think you can take the ex-bobby, Ben,’ said Fry.

  ‘Oh, thanks. Is that because you think I’m the best person for the job, then?’

  ‘Yes. Well … that, and the length of the drive up to his house. Someone is going to get wet.’

  Some retired coppers chose to run pubs. They wanted to stay busy, they said, so they kept themselves close to the public – and sometimes a bit too close to the alcohol, as well. But ex-Police Constable David Palfreyman had hit his thirty and retired to his garden. He had a decent-sized patch behind Hollowbrook Cottage. It was a well-kept property that had been carefully modernized, and lots of money had been pumped into its appearance. Palfreyman’s cottage would be worth a packet by the time he had to sell it to pay for his medical and social care in old age.

  Right now, though, Palfreyman looked robustly healthy. He was a big man, a couple of inches over six feet and keeping his muscles from sagging too much by regular physical activity. Like other balding men who spent a lot of time outdoors, he had to wear a hat to avoid the damage the weather could do to his head, summer or winter. The former constable had chosen a dilapidated fedora that flopped low at the brim, shielding his eyes from the rain.

  He met Cooper at the gate, having seen him coming up the length of his drive. He seemed genuinely pleased to see Cooper’s warrant card, which was a rare event. And, for the first time that day, Cooper was invited in.

  On the doorstep, Palfreyman paused and pointed out a passing car. ‘That’s Mary Greenhalgh, on her way to pick up the kids from school. If you watch, there’ll be a blue Vauxhall go by in a couple of minutes. That will be her boyfriend.’

  ‘Boyfriend?’

  ‘Lover, if you like. He visits Mary in the afternoons, then they leave the house separately – she goes off to fetch the kids, and he drives off in the other direction, turns round and comes back. I think he lives near Buxton.’

  Just as Palfreyman had predicted, a blue Vauxhall went by, driven by a man with fair hair who was straightening his tie with one hand.

  ‘Do you know everything that goes on around here?’

  ‘It’s second nature to notice things, after thirty years in the job. Besides, I don’t have much else to do with my time. There’s precious little gardening in the winter.’

  When Palfreyman gestured, Cooper saw that blue veins snaked across the back of his hands. But they were large hands, with the sort of palms that might have delivered a smart slap to a recalcitrant youth in the old days.

  Palfreyman put the kettle on, and immediately began to talk. He revealed that he’d spent his entire career in what would now be known as ‘core policing’. Beat bobbying, he called it. Never a specialist of any kind, and never a candidate for promotion. He’d made it to his thirty without a black mark on his record, and without any commendations either. A man with no ambitions beyond doing his job and staying out of trouble.

  Cooper thought he knew the type. No doubt Palfreyman had spent the last few years of his service counting down the weeks and days as his retirement got closer, as so many officers did. In police stations all over the country, officers had the date they would qualify for their full pension circled in red on a calendar.

  ‘Have a seat,’ said Palfreyman. ‘I won’t be long.’

  Cooper settled himself in the lounge, admiring a jade-green rug and an IKEA coffee table while he watched the retired bobby fussing about in the kitchen.

  From what Palfreyman said, he’d been committed to the job in his own way. Lots of younger officers would have considered a posting to a rural backwater as a punishment. Not too much crime to deal with out here, was there? It was more of a PR job than proper policing, really – the visible face of the old-fashioned British bobby, providing reassurance for the public.

  Palfreyman was grey-haired, but still a big man. A lot of the weight he carried must have been put on since he finished active service. He thumped around the kitchen on feet that seemed to be wearing a permanent pair of heavy boots, even after he’d taken them off in the porch.

  Actually, he wouldn’t have lasted much longer in the force, if he hadn’t been due for retirement. Cooper couldn’t see him as a modern response officer, turning up on blues and twos for a punch-up outside a pub or to chase a burglary suspect over a few garden walls. His supervisors would have put him behind a desk, where he could fill in forms. And he’d have hated it. Cooper could picture him in the corner of an office, oozing resentment and cynicism.

  ‘So you’ve still got your finger on the pulse of Rakedale, Mr Palfreyman?’

  ‘Not exactly. Not like I used to. But I know when its blood pressure is up, if you follow me.’

  ‘But you’re familiar with the history of Pity Wood Farm?’

  ‘You ought to talk to Tom Farnham,’ said Palfreyman. ‘He worked at Pity Wood. He was the only one who worked there any length of time, I think. But then, he’s local. All the rest of them stayed for a few months, then moved on.’

  ‘The rest?’

  ‘Casuals. Short-term labour.’

  ‘Are you referring to itinerant workers?’

  ‘Oh, aye. Lots of them have turned up at Pity Wood over the years. Coming and going all the time, they were. It made it difficult to keep track, from my point of view. I never quite knew who was living in the area at any one time. Well, I tried to persuade Raymond to keep better records, but it was a waste of breath. It’s amazing to me that they didn’t get into trouble. They wouldn’t get away with it now, the regulations are too tight. So much bureaucracy. But then, you must know that, in the job.’

  ‘Did you find the Sutton brothers difficult to deal with, Mr Palfreyman?’

  ‘Difficult?’ He sniffed thoughtfully. ‘Well, they were a funny bunch, the Suttons. I was round there once, in the days before Tom Farnham appeared on the scene. Derek and Raymond were just sitting in that room there, one either side of the table, not speaking a word to each other. Weird, it was. Like they were afraid of breaking the silence, as if they thought something terrible would happen if they were the first to speak.’

  ‘Was there bad blood between them? Did the brothers have an argument of some kind?’

  ‘Not that I know of. Not in living memory, anyway. I think that’s just the way they were. Awkward, pig-headed buggers. You know the type.’

  ‘Yes, I think I do.’

  Another car passed on the road outside, and Palfreyman turned his attention away.

  ‘I see you have a cat,’ said Cooper on the way
out, noticing an elegant ball of fur curled on a rug in the kitchen.

  ‘Yes. He’s a Burmese.’

  ‘Did the Suttons have a lot of cats?’

  ‘God knows,’ said Palfreyman. ‘Well, probably. All farms have cats, don’t they?’

  Fry and Murfin were invited in, too. But the property they’d arrived at wasn’t a farm, not any more. Someone had bought the farmhouse and converted it into a nice family home, but had let the land go to neighbouring farmers. If there had been outbuildings on the property, there was no sign of them now. This was pretty much what Pity Wood was intended to be, Fry thought.

  A nice new Range Rover stood on the drive, the only car she’d seen for a while that wasn’t plastered with mud. Inside, the home was immaculate – probably kept in that condition by the small, Asian-looking woman that Fry had glimpsed passing like a ghost from the kitchen into the passage when she arrived.

  ‘We don’t see much of the village people,’ said Mrs Brindley, setting out a tray with a welcome cup of tea for her visitors. ‘Not that we aren’t village people ourselves, but you know what I mean.’

  ‘Not really,’ said Fry.

  ‘Well, Rakedale … there’s no reason to go there, not as far as we’re concerned. Yes, even though it’s only half a mile away. It’s not as if it has any shops, or a post office. Or a church.’

  ‘Just the Primitive Methodist chapel.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Mrs Brindley was a slender, mannered woman with a carefully casual style that suited her. Both she and her husband were in their forties, pleasant and friendly. Fry wouldn’t normally have put much store in those qualities, but this was Rakedale, and they were a relief.

  ‘Our lifestyles send us further afield, I’m afraid, Sergeant,’ she said. ‘We need shops, restaurants, theatres. And sports facilities for the children. You won’t find any of those in Rakedale. So unless we’re feeling really lazy and decide to call at the village pub, we never go there. We head off to Hartington for the church, Buxton or Ashbourne for shopping and that sort of thing.’

  In addition to the couple themselves, there was a teenage boy in the room, who Fry hadn’t been introduced to when she arrived. About eighteen, possibly a bit younger. She was finding it more difficult to tell these days. He said nothing, but his unblinking stare was a bit disconcerting. Presumably he was one of the reasons for the Brindleys’ lifestyle.

  ‘So you wouldn’t know the Suttons at Pity Wood Farm?’ asked Fry.

  ‘That’s across the other side of the village, isn’t it?’ said Mrs Brindley. ‘We’ve probably heard talk of them.’

  ‘Probably? Who from?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Who would you have heard talk from, if you don’t go into the village?’

  Mrs Brindley looked at her husband, confused. ‘Alex?’

  ‘There’s a kind of communication by osmosis in a place like this,’ he said. ‘People know things without you having to tell them. If you’ve already been to the village, I bet they knew you were coming long before you arrived.’

  ‘Yes, that was the impression I got.’

  Brindley smiled. He was a good-looking man, tall and dark, but relaxed and co-operative in a way that she’d come to regard as uncharacteristic of people in this area. It must come from meeting too many criminals.

  ‘Well, it seems to work for us, too,’ he said. ‘We’re aware of the Suttons, yes. Two brothers, wasn’t it? But one of them died, not long ago. It was in the local paper, and they had his funeral at the Methodist chapel.’

  ‘Yes, that was Derek Sutton.’

  ‘But they were farmers, you see … We weren’t on visiting terms. We wouldn’t have much in common, I imagine.’

  That was the truest sentence Fry had heard spoken for several days.

  She finished her tea and looked out of the window. Sure enough, it was still raining. She couldn’t yet see any sign of Ben Cooper standing outside getting wet.

  ‘One last question. Have you heard of anyone going missing locally, while you’ve lived here? Word of that would get round, wouldn’t it? By osmosis or otherwise.’

  ‘No, and it’s rather worrying, Sergeant,’ said Mrs Brindley. ‘We heard on the news about something being found. There was a picture of the old farm. It’s terrible, what’s happened.’

  She couldn’t even bring herself to mention an object so tasteless as a dead body.

  ‘Yes, terrible,’ said Fry.

  ‘We’re very anxious to help, if we can. But we’re so busy at the moment, all of us. You were quite lucky to catch us at home. We certainly haven’t had time to keep up with the local gossip.’

  ‘How many children do you have, Mrs Brindley?’

  ‘Just the two, Sergeant. Evan here, and Chrissie, our daughter. Chrissie is fourteen.’

  Fry addressed the teenage boy who’d sat silently on the edge of the sofa, watching her throughout their visit.

  ‘I don’t suppose you know anyone in Rakedale either, Evan?’

  ‘No, hardly anyone. There are no young people, only old – I mean, old people.’

  ‘It’s difficult enough trying to keep Chrissie and Evan away from unsuitable company at school,’ said Mrs Brindley. ‘We wouldn’t want them going down into the village.’

  ‘No, I see.’

  ‘Should we be concerned about the safety of our children, Sergeant?’ she asked.

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Fry. ‘If a crime was committed – and we’re not even a hundred per cent certain of that yet – then it happened a while ago.’

  The teacups were empty, and Murfin had consumed the last crumb of the last biscuit. It was time to leave the normal world and get back to Pity Wood Farm.

  ‘Oh, I suppose you must know David Palfreyman?’ she said.

  ‘Palfreyman? Yes, we do know him,’ said Brindley carefully. ‘He lives quite close, and we’ve said “hello” a few times.’

  ‘He used to be the local village bobby.’

  ‘Ah, the rural policeman. Yes, we’ve definitely seen him. You could hardly help but recognize what he is. I’m sorry.’

  Throughout their visit, the son had sat watching Fry and Murfin as though they were putting on a show especially for his benefit. His own home version of Law and Order or CSI, maybe. Oh well, the climax would be a bit disappointing – no guns drawn, no armed officers summoned to slap on the cuffs. Just boring old police work. Just Detective Sergeant Diane Fry struggling through the mud, as usual.

  10

  Cooper dropped Fry and Murfin off at Pity Wood Farm and consulted the Ordnance Survey map again for his next call. To the south of Rakedale were the remains of Pity Wood itself, and a mound shown on the map as Soldier’s Knoll. Some of the fields and hillsides had evocative names, too – Godfrey’s Rough, Limbersitch, Biggin Hey, Callow Gore. They included a lot of leas, royds and haggs, all names for clearings in the woods. There must have been many more trees here at one time.

  Tom Farnham lived near to the village of Newhaven, on the other side of the wood. There was no direct route, so Cooper turned the Toyota towards the A515.

  He passed a farm called Organ Ground, where there was an even larger mountain of silage bags than at Pity Wood, though these were mostly white. Was there some significance to the different colours? Cooper searched his memory of farming practices, as he’d picked them up piecemeal during the last thirty years, but found he hadn’t the faintest idea. If he’d ever known, it was gone now. He’d have to ask Matt some time.

  A little red Bowers bus turned the corner ahead of him. On the way towards Newhaven, he remembered that there was no mobile phone signal in this area. The display on his phone read ‘SOS calls only’. What a joke.

  The transition between limestone and clay was obvious in the houses that you passed on this road. In the south of the county, the main building material was red brick, with clay tile roofs instead of stone. Many of the farms had converted their old buildings into holiday cottages. No farmworkers lived on the
premises any more, and at some times of the year, temporary visitors would far outnumber the resident population.

  Near the Newhaven brickworks, a small herd of black-and-white cattle bunched together round their water trough, standing in a sea of mud. Where a tractor had entered the field, the ground was completely liquefied. When one of the cows moved, its hooves splashed with a noise like a fish leaping in a river, and the legs and bellies of the animals were thick with semi-dried mud. The ubiquitous mire made Cooper long for the clean swell of the scree-scattered hills further north.

  Here, the air was full of the hot smell of kilns. The clay and sand for the brickworks had all been quarried locally at one time. Even the ganister for making silica bricks had come from a quarry fifteen miles across the county at Wessington. But now all the materials used at Newhaven were imported.

  Farnham’s house was sheltered from the road by a belt of trees, and Cooper might have driven past without seeing it, but for a curl of smoke from the chimney and a glint of rain on a steel cattle grid protecting Mr Farnham’s gateway from marauding livestock.

  He found the owner of the house in a garage workshop, where he had a petrol-driven lawnmower in pieces on the concrete floor. Other lawnmowers stood against the breeze-block wall awaiting attention, along with a strimmer and a chain saw. The smell of petrol and oil was almost overpowering, but Farnham had left the garage door open to disperse the fumes. The first few feet inside the door were wet with the rain that blew in, but it was better than suffocating in petrol fumes.

  ‘Yes, I worked with the Sutton brothers for a few years,’ said Farnham, wiping a small component with grease. ‘Until the business started going to pieces, that is. No one with any sense stays in a failing enterprise unless they’re really tied to it, like the Suttons were. I knew when it was time to get out.’

  ‘It sounds a bit like a rat leaving a sinking ship, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir.’

  Farnham was unruffled. ‘Well, I wasn’t the captain, so I wasn’t about to go down with my vessel, if you know what I mean. I looked around for the nearest lifeboat. Tom Farnham is no fool.’