by J M Gregson
Hook gave him a conspiratorial smile. ‘It is, yes. You don’t miss much, do you, Daniel?’
Burrell grinned back at him. ‘I try not to. I heard the girls here talking about it. The nurses – that’s what they are, most of the time. They call themselves carers, but most of it’s nursing, with this lot.’ He looked round disapprovingly, obviously not counting himself among the denizens who needed nursing. ‘I’ve got my own telly in my room. I caught it on the Central South news, after I’d heard the girls talking. Was this thing found on my land?’
It hadn’t been his land for years now, of course, but he still thought of it as such, which was entirely understandable. When you tended land throughout your working life, it remained yours for ever, in a sense. It bore the results of your labour and your aspirations long after you had left it, sometimes long after you had left this world. Hook nodded. ‘It was found at the very edge of your land, yes, Daniel. A complete skeleton, not just the skull. Can you tell us anything about it?’
‘No!’ He looked suitably aghast at the thought. ‘I’d no idea it was there until I heard the news broadcast. I knew it was in my area, but I didn’t know it was on my land – not until you two turned up with your questions.’ He looked accusingly at Lambert, as if the Chief Superintendent and not he was a suspect here. ‘I know bugger all about it. Been there for centuries, I expect.’
‘I’m afraid it hadn’t, Daniel. The experts are still working on the bones, but we already know that they were put there – buried in a shallow grave, in fact – when you still owned the land.’
Burrell paused for a moment to digest what was clearly highly unwelcome news. ‘Well, I had bugger all to do with it. I know nothing about it.’
‘You’ve no idea who this girl might have been? It would be much better to tell us now, if you have. Even if the people who worked with you on the farm prove to have nothing to do with these bones, it would be useful to have your ideas on what might have happened. We think there was a serious crime here, but we know practically nothing, as yet. We’re not sure exactly when this woman died. We don’t even know her identity yet, but we’re pretty sure she was a victim.’
Burrell nodded slowly, staring at his feet. ‘I know nothing about this.’
‘You had a son, didn’t you, Dan?’
‘Aye. He had nothing to do with this either.’
Hook let it pass. Had he been questioning more aggressively, he would have pointed out that Burrell had just denied all knowledge of the matter, and that in those circumstances he couldn’t rule out anyone who’d been around at the time. But he had decided from the outset that persuasion was going to bring more than confrontation from the spiky old man in the wheelchair. ‘How old was your son twenty years ago, Daniel?’
Burrell glared at him, resenting the question but perhaps realizing that it had to be asked. ‘He’d be nearly twenty-four then.’
‘Married, is he?’
A pause. Then Burrell spoke as if he was surrendering a tooth to them. ‘Married and divorced. Living and working in Cheltenham. Having bugger all to do with the farm.’
‘I see. But he grew up with you on the farm. Worked there, I suppose, as a boy and a young man. I expect he knew the ground almost as thoroughly as you did.’
Burrell’s lips set sullenly. ‘Andrew wasn’t interested in the farm. He worked hard at his books and his mother encouraged him. I thought he’d go to agricultural college and then come back with some new ideas for the farm. But he went off and studied history. Started teaching it. That’s what he’s doing now. Andrew has no interest in farming and the land. I don’t see much of him now. He comes and visits me every couple of months, but we don’t seem to have much to talk about, since his mother went.’
It compressed a long relationship and a small domestic tragedy into a few words, but it didn’t deny Hook’s original point, that this son would have known the terrain of the farm well – an important fact if he had needed to dispose of a corpse. Burrell watched the DS make a note in his notebook in his round, unhurried hand, but was not drawn into any further comment. Bert looked up at him, gave him a sympathetic smile and said, ‘Not easy, this, is it? But suspicious deaths bring trouble with them. It’s inevitable that we have to upset people with our questions, even though most of them prove to be entirely innocent. You must have employed other men at the farm?’
‘Not as many as when I started. Tractors took over from horses even before I was around, but we used to have more casuals then. Hedgers and ditchers. And Irishmen who turned up out of nowhere when we cut the hay.’ He stared misty-eyed for a moment at the greenery he could see through the window, nostalgic not so much for a vanished agricultural world as for his lost youth and vigour. ‘I had one or two who passed through, didn’t stay more than a year or two.’
‘We’ll need the names of any of them who were around at the time when these bones were buried on your land.’
Daniel Burrell nodded. He’d remember those names; he hadn’t lost his marbles like so many of the folk in here, had he? He said slowly, ‘And then there was Jim Simmons, of course. I trusted him.’
They took the details, which Burrell delivered precisely and without effort. It was as they drove between the carefully cut lawns to the exit of the care home that Lambert said thoughtfully, ‘I wonder why he left the most obvious man until the last – it was almost as though he was reluctant to mention him.’
FIVE
In her office at Severn Trent Water in Coventry, Katherine Clark, MBE, glanced at her watch and decided that she had time to make the phone call before her next appointment.
She preferred phone calls to e-mails whenever the matter was important. The personal touch still counted, even when you were delivering admonitions rather than praise. And when you had questions to ask, you put people on the spot when you spoke to them without notice on the phone. They’d no time to think up excuses or fob you off with inadequate explanations, as they often tried to do when answering e-mails.
‘Have you found the fault yet?’
‘Yes. It was pinpointed an hour ago. We’ve got the team on it.’
‘And when will they complete the repair?’
A pause. The person on the line didn’t know, hadn’t pressed for that piece of information, hadn’t expected to have this harridan on the other end of the phone on a Sunday. ‘It’s difficult to give a time in the case of repairs like this.’
‘Of course it is. But you’re speaking now to a senior officer of the company, not some punter who can be fobbed off with pious hopes. How many people are on this so-called team?’
‘I’m not quite sure. Four, I think. It’s difficult to get hold of the right people and assemble a team, on a Sunday.’
‘Of course it is. That’s why we pay people good money to be on standby. So that a company of our size and with our reputation solves problems like this one quickly and efficiently.’
The woman on the receiving end of Kate Clark’s thoughts was resentful – probably even more so than if it had been a man who was pressing her. ‘I’ve got the men out. They’re working on it now. I haven’t the technical knowledge to know exactly what they should be doing.’
‘And meanwhile three hundred households in Cinderford have no water and have no idea when they’ll be able to use their loos or bath their children. Tell your team to get their fingers out and get this thing solved. They work on until the system is fully restored, whenever that is. On into the night, if necessary. They’re paid good money for this. Let them know that the good money won’t continue without swift and efficient action from them in emergencies like this. What’s your name?’
A pause. Kate pictured the woman wondering whether she could refuse, then heard her deep breath as she decided that she couldn’t. ‘It’s Jones. Mrs Jane Jones. And I’m only here because—’
‘Thank you. I’ve made a note of that. I’d like to be able to commend you to others for your prompt action and your diligence in seeing this job carried through, i
n due course. I trust that I will be able to do that. Goodbye for the present, Mrs Jones.’
Kate Clark put down the phone and smiled at it. She did these things easily now, whereas once she’d had to steel herself to do them. She’d gone through the glass ceiling which was supposed to keep women contained a few years ago: she didn’t consider issues of gender any more, except when she was planning her next move up the ladder. The strident calls for more women in the higher echelons of management had come at the right time for her. Big companies like Severn Trent were looking to promote women because they knew that they were under scrutiny and needed to have a certain number of women in top jobs. As a utility plc providing services which had once been publicly owned, they were under closer scrutiny than most.
The time and public sentiment had been right for a woman like her; Kate acknowledged that. But you still had to take advantage of what was offered to you. You might have society pressures working in your favour; you might have the advantage over men of similar abilities; the situation might be the reverse of what it had been for centuries. But you still had to harness these things. You still had to work the system, even though the system was now geared to give you greater rewards. She must be working it well, because she was an MBE already, with a suggestion from those faceless people who controlled the honours system that there was a damehood in prospect if she kept her nose clean and maintained her present rate of progress. Not bad for a woman of forty-three who had come from the background she had.
Kate Clark despised the establishment at the same time as she was manipulating it.
Sometimes, you needed to show that you could be more of a bastard than the average male executive. A breakdown in the water supply, like this one in the Forest of Dean, was the ideal opportunity. No one could really say that you were being too harsh with your juniors when sanitation was involved, when the health of children was at stake. If you were a little too forceful, the convenience and the safety of the public was involved, wasn’t it? So your energy and ruthlessness could only be applauded. Thank goodness someone was taking action, people would say. Thank goodness someone cared enough for the public to be kicking arses on a Sunday.
It was a member of the public she had to see now, the head of a pressure group which was trying to gain assurances about the replacement of deteriorating water mains and sewerage pipes in Kidderminster. She had good news to give, which was why she was here on a Sunday. When you can only offer delays and evasions, get one of your deputies to do it: good training for them, surely. When you have good news to give, smile and relax and deliver it graciously yourself. Messengers delivering bad news didn’t get shot any more, but they made themselves decidedly unpopular. And correspondingly, those with good news were often welcomed as if they had personally achieved their pleasant tidings.
She’d told her PA that there was no need for her to come in on a Sunday. ‘We working women must stick together and I understand your family commitments,’ had been her unspoken message. She now ushered Geraint James into her office personally and seated him in her most comfortable armchair. Then she forsook her desk and sat down in another armchair opposite him. ‘We’re very informal here, whenever we can be,’ she said. ‘Sorry there are no refreshments, but I didn’t feel it fair to bring ancillary staff in on a Sunday. Well, Mr James, you are a business person as I am, so I am sure that we will understand each other.’
It was unashamed flattery to imply that he was on the same level as she was. James owned a small office supplies business in Kidderminster. He was not in her league and both of them knew it. But she was telling him that they were equals; that both of them understood the sordid world around them and yet were in some mysterious way above it.
Geraint James tried to assert himself against this brisk application of charm. ‘I’m here as the representative of a larger group, Ms Clark. We have made out what we think is a very effective case for refurbishment work to be conducted in our area.’
‘It’s Kate, please. And I hope I may call you Geraint. No need for formalities between people who are on the same side.’ She flashed him a smile which was all the more dazzling for being unexpected. ‘You have made out a very effective case indeed. I congratulate you on your presentation. It is at once forceful and free of the distressing gobbledegook which seems to characterize so many of the documents I have to plough through and respond to. I would say, indeed, that it is a model of how such arguments ought to be presented.’
‘Thank you. And I appreciate your taking the trouble to make the time to see me during your weekend. But the essential—’
‘It is your weekend as well, Geraint. And I am well paid for my efforts, whereas I expect your time today is being offered in a purely voluntary capacity. But let us cut to the chase, as the modern idiom has it. I have good news for you.’
Geraint James had been mustering his resources for an argument against this formidable opponent. He was for a moment lost for words as he was bathed in another dazzling Clark smile. He managed a feeble, ‘That will be very welcome to our group.’
‘I am able to tell you that new pipelines in Kidderminster have been approved by the board as a matter of urgency. I have pressed hard for a date and I heard yesterday that work will commence at the end of July. That means that the work should be completed in early autumn, well before winter brings the problems which you described so graphically in your excellent request for action. Perhaps you would be good enough to relay to the members of your group our apologies for the trouble caused by pipework and other engineering which are over half a century old. Obviously these date from times long before Severn Trent took over. I’m afraid that the Kidderminster section, whilst adequate in its day, was designed to cater for a scattered rural population and a much smaller demand. That applies to many of our services, sadly. We are undertaking reconstruction all over our area, but of course Rome cannot be built in a day. The fact that your project has achieved priority is down in no small measure to the excellent work you have done in outlining the problem so effectively and bringing it to our attention so forcefully.’
It was a longer speech that Kate had intended, but she could see from Geraint James’s face that it was successful. When you had good news to give you might as well make the most of it. And end with a shameless compliment to the man in front of you; so long as the news was good and the praise was lavish, no one was likely to be coldly objective.
James said, ‘I shall certainly relay your sentiments to my group. And may I thank you on their behalf for the forcefulness with which you have pressed our case. I am well aware of your efforts in this matter.’
Kate Clark shook his hand and contrived to look modestly embarrassed by his reception of her news. She knew from previous experience that she was rather good at looking modestly embarrassed. It was a good way of receiving praise without appearing too pleased with yourself. She saw James through the outer office and right to the door of the lift herself, there being no one else around on this bright spring Sunday morning. Never be too grand to show consideration and simple politeness; women were much better than men when it came to things like this. James would tell the men and women in his pressure group how gracious and helpful she had been. When she had risen further, to control the company and become a national name, they would be glad to claim this fleeting contact they had once enjoyed with her.
Kate went thoughtfully back into her office, locked the door, switched on her computer and inspected the latest internet news. There was no new information on the skeleton which had been unearthed at Brenton Park. No definite date of death had been established and the identity of the corpse had not yet been discovered.
For the moment, she could relax.
The farmhouse was a hundred and eighty years old and built in Cotswold stone, mellow and solid. It was itself a replacement for a much older building on this site. It had been built just before the great agricultural decline of the nineteenth century made such spending impossible. The Corn Laws had had their eff
ects here, ushering in a long period of rural poverty, with minimal profits for the farm owners and starvation wages for those unfortunate enough to work on the land. These stones had witnessed tragedies worthy of Thomas Hardy’s pen.
But those sufferings were long gone and long forgotten now. The building, with its mellow stone, would have brought a handsome price as a private residence. But it was still the centre of a working farm, one of the few of its size to survive in Herefordshire. There was wheat shooting up vigorously in the field they had driven past on their way to the ancient cobbled yard. Free-range hens strutted and pecked on the square of green fenced off for them beside the farm. There was no sign of the caravan site which so many farmers had decided represented an easier form of income than working the land. The barn beside the farmhouse no longer housed hay, but it had not yet been converted into ‘desirable residences of character’. It housed the tractors and other expensive machinery which many farmers left to take their chance in the open.
Jim Simmons was standing in the doorway by the time Lambert had parked the car. He was a powerfully built man, just under six feet and with the muscles which develop with daily physical work. He had thick brown hair without a trace of grey and wide brown eyes which narrowed a little as he assessed his visitors. ‘I knew you’d be coming.’ He voiced it as if it were an accusation.
‘And now we’re here. I’m Chief Superintendent Lambert and this is Detective Sergeant Hook. From the little we know at present, it seems highly probable that we are engaged upon a murder inquiry.’
Simmons nodded calmly. ‘It’s about the body found in the Jacksons’ garden, isn’t it?’
Lambert smiled, playing for time for a second or two, trying to weigh up this seemingly very calm man and decide what his attitude might be. ‘Yes. The body which was buried on your land.’
Simmons returned his smile. ‘Fair enough. I sold that land to Joe Jackson last November. Just a fifth of an acre, to make his garden much bigger. Good business on both sides: it made his plot around the bungalow much more spacious and I was happy with the price he paid me. But I went up there this morning and peeped over his new fence. The spot where that skeleton was dug up was definitely on my ground at the time it was buried.’