by Peter Helton
‘Still on two wheels, then?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I’m beginning to get a taste for it. But it’s not always practical.’ I blew on my superheated tea. ‘But then neither is any of this stuff.’
‘No, but it nourishes the soul.’
I had to agree. Something went wrong with car design after the 1960s. Too many buttons, for a start. I looked about me. ‘Talking of poor souls, is my DS still around?’
‘Most of it went for scrap, along with other useless crap I had hanging around.’
‘Do I owe you?’
‘I made a few pennies on engine bits, so no, we’re quits.’
‘That’s good, because I’ve a favour to ask.’
‘You surprise me.’
‘Do you remember, a few years ago, you went on this trip down some wild Welsh river in a snazzy motorized dinghy with your then girlfriend?’
‘I haven’t got Alzheimer’s yet,’ he bristled.
‘And she fell out the boat and it took you half an hour to notice and when you finally went back to pull her out she dumped you?’
‘Your point being?’
‘Still got the boat?’
He scratched his scarred scalp with oil-blackened nails. ‘Now there’s a good question. I know where I’ve got the engine – never mislaid an engine yet – but the inflatable . . . It’ll be somewhere, sure, but it might have,’ he made a sweeping gesture at the farmhouse and the endless outbuildings, ‘some stuff on top of it, if you know what I mean.’
I knew exactly what he meant, since I used the same filing system at Mill House.
‘What you want it for, messing about on the river? Just remember what happened with Sally, is all I say.’
‘She did marry you in the end.’
He sniffed. ‘Yeah, but she still mentions it.’
‘I need it for a job. A tricky one.’
‘I won’t ask then. When d’you want it for?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘There’s a surprise. I’m busy now, but I’ll see what I can do later,’ he promised.
Leaving the matter in Jake’s oil-stained hands I rode back towards Bath. The rain had returned in the shape of a depressing drizzle that rendered me half blind trying to peer through the goggles and slowly soaking me, making me seriously consider such stylistic horrors as rainproof trousers. Before I could skid too far down that dangerous road to sartorial oblivion a sudden impulse made me go past my turn-off for home and rumble on through the misty afternoon to the Lam Valley.
Needham hadn’t bothered pulling me in again because, as he had hinted when he came to inspect my pantry, the latest thinking was that just possibly I might have nothing to do with the killing and it had all been some weird coincidence that Albert Barrington had exhaled his soul in the back of my car. But even at my age I still had some problems believing in a random universe where all was coincidence and meaning a matter of personal choice. I sensed method behind all this. Unfortunately it wasn’t my own. At the moment my own style of detection resembled blind man’s buff more than any methodical investigation, but then I was just a little distracted by other events. I didn’t believe in the joyrider theory of how the DS had landed in Lam Valley. Whoever had nicked my car that night hadn’t gone very far in it. It was perhaps less than ten minutes’ careful drive from Larkhall to Blackfield’s meadow, or a five-minute drive at the kind of speed that makes you crash through a five-bar gate and carry on another forty yards up the hill. Not much joy, anyway. Someone had found my keys where I had dropped them that night in my inebriated state or, much more likely, had swiped them off the table at the Rosie while I was away from it, checking out Mr Lane’s reading material.
There was now no evidence left that my DS and the late Mr Barrington had ever met in the dank little meadow. Even the smashed five bar gate had been completely cleared away and replaced with a lot of nothingness. As I came up to it I slowed and stopped. The sudden fall in exhaust noise allowed me to catch a similar noise behind me, like an unwholesome echo. I looked swiftly around and just caught the top of a motorcycle helmet disappear over the rise as someone frantically turned their bike around and hared back in the direction from which I’d come. I heard the bike’s engine accelerate away fast. If I didn’t catch him last time then I wouldn’t catch him this time. The memory of missing Jack Fryer’s enormous tractor by a couple of inches as I screamed round the bend was still fresh enough in my mind not to need refreshing.
The Norton’s noise made a handful of sheep bolt from where they’d been grazing near the lane as I grabbed a handful of throttle and accelerated away. I crossed by the little bridge and turned towards Spring Farm. This time I found the gates closed but I could see light behind the kitchen window. I leaned the bike against the fence and opened the gate. Unfortunately, between me and the front door of the farmhouse stood a large, dark, wet dog who seemed to be as mesmerized by my every move as I was by his. Where had he suddenly come from? He was huge and he sniffed in my direction. Why did people always let monsters like this run around, free to eat harmless visitors? And why had I yet to see a farm with a doorbell? And why was I so scared of dogs? I made a tentative step forward. The dog barked and ran straight at me. His rank smell travelled before him. I stopped and stood, petrified, while the huge wet thing sniffed my boots, my legs, then stuck his snout firmly into my crutch. What was all that doggy sniffing supposed to be for anyway? What if he decided he didn’t like the smell of me? What if he decided he liked it lots and lots?
A face appeared briefly at the window. A few moments later the door opened and Brian, the farm worker, filled the frame. ‘What are you doing standing in the middle of the yard?’ There was genuine puzzlement in his voice.
I didn’t take my eyes off the dog. ‘I’ve come to have a word with the farmer. Mr Fryer.’
‘Yeah, I know that’s his name, no need to remind me. You’d better come in then.’ He stepped aside to let Fryer squeeze out of the low door.
‘What is it, Brian?’
‘It’s that private investigator again.’ I had never noticed my job had that many syllables before.
‘So it is,’ he confirmed. ‘What are you doing here again?’
‘I’d . . . just like a quick word, that’s all.’
‘Well, I don’t really mind the rain but wouldn’t you feel more comfortable inside?’ he asked. By now he must have had little doubt as to what had rooted me to the spot but he made me spell it out for him.
‘You couldn’t call off your dog first, could you?’
‘Call him off? Just push him away, the soft bastard’s not going to bite you, he’s the most useless guard dog on the planet. I’d be better off with one of my chickens patrolling the place.’
‘What’s his name?’ Being on sniffing terms I thought we ought to be introduced.
‘Grot. Though I’m not sure he knows it.’ He disappeared inside, followed by the farmhand. I walked forward, closely shadowed by the dog who did in fact wag his tail now and tried to jump up at me. ‘Make sure the dog stays outside!’ Fryer called.
‘Sorry, Grot,’ I apologized as I squeezed the door shut behind me.
The kitchen, which I’d last seen in the grip of form-filling depression, had normalized to the point where the floor was no longer covered in dirty pots and pans and the big table in the centre was merely cluttered with mugs, newspapers and a crate of gnarled quinces exuding the most delectable perfume. Fryer himself looked less dishevelled and had shaved sometime during the last twenty-four hours. Brian stood by the sink and Fryer on the other side of the table. Both held chipped mugs and began sipping what looked and smelled suspiciously like instant soup. No wholesome stews bubbling on the Aga in this household. No one offered me a mug, so I couldn’t tell them just how revolting I found the stuff. And how much I’d appreciate some.
‘Still sniffing around? What’s it this time?’ Fryer asked, sipping from his mug and pulling a face at the hot soup.
‘Oh, same thing really. I just
wondered . . .’ I gave him a description of Cairn and Heather, told him their names. ‘Ring any bells?’
‘Not in my church. You think they have anything to do with the murder?’
‘They might well have. I wonder, have you come across anything strange in the valley lately?’
‘What, apart from yourself, you mean?’ Fryer said drily. Barry guffawed at this as though it was the funniest joke he’d heard for years. Perhaps it was.
‘Apart from me, yes.’
‘No, not really. What do you mean? People?’
‘Someone killed Gemma Stone’s dog up in the wood by Blackfield’s place. Bashed his head in.’
‘Did they?’ He pursed his lips and nodded. ‘That’s not nice. I wonder why.’
I had the suspicion he wouldn’t spend too much time wondering. ‘I think someone’s trying to get to Gem Stone.’
‘Why would they try a thing like that?’ He shrugged. ‘Stone can look after herself. When she first turned up I thought she wouldn’t last three months, down there by herself, no phone, no nothing laid on. But she’s made a go of it, give her that.’
‘Yes, you have to be pretty tough to live down there, I imagine, in a caravan, all through the winter. Lonely at Christmas, too, I should think.’
Fryer shot me a look at that but I returned it levelly, as though I had never heard of his Christmas lunge. ‘Farming’s a lonely business these days,’ he agreed. ‘Not so long ago farms needed lots of labour, there’d be twenty-odd people in a field doing a job one man does by himself with a tractor now.’
I wondered how lonely Fryer himself felt. No woman would have tolerated the state of this kitchen for long, so I assumed he was living alone or with Barry here, who struck me as rather a dour companion. ‘You seen her lately?’
‘Who?’ This seemed rather disingenuous, since we had only just mentioned Gem Stone, so I didn’t elaborate. ‘You mean the Stone woman? Not for ages. Have you, Barry?’
Barry sniffed, shook his head. ‘Nah.’ He turned to rinse out his mug with elaborate care.
I changed tack. ‘I went up to Blackfield’s place the other day.’
‘Oh yeah? Meet him?’
‘Met his son.’
‘That’s who I mean. Dad’s not all there by all accounts since his wife died. Did you ask him what the fuck he’s turning his bit of land into?’
‘Yup, secure storage.’
Both Barry and Fryer guffawed at that. ‘That’s it,’ Fryer said. ‘Secure fucking storage, that’s what he told us at the public meeting, I just wanted to hear it again. Ha. And he got planning permission, can you credit it? Have you seen the mess he made out there, even a bit of road, massive fucking crane and all to shift his tin boxes around. I’d gladly store something securely up his . . .’
I felt we had probably explored that theme as far as it would go and made to leave when I remembered why I had come here in the first place. ‘Oh yeah,’ I asked by the door, ‘do you know of anyone riding around on a trailie in the valley?’
‘Lots of people use trail bikes around here, it’s a good way of getting around. Trailies and quad bikes. We’ve got both. Why the interest?’
‘Do you remember the other day? One must have nearly collided with you in the lane, couple of seconds later I nearly ran into you.’
‘Didn’t see any trailie, all I saw was you carrying an idiotic amount of speed round the corner. You were very lucky not to become a smudge on the side of my tractor.’
I had to agree with him, though just how he could have missed seeing the bike I was pursuing was a little mysterious.
The door slammed unceremoniously behind me as I stepped into the worsening rain. Grot was lying amongst sacks of something or other under a shelter of wood and corrugated asbestos and sensibly lifted no more than his head as I left. As I rode away from the place the gloriously useful heating arrangements at the Rose and Crown insinuated themselves into my mind, irresistible like the mirage of a lake to a man dying of thirst in the desert. Well, something like that, anyway.
Only a few early regulars were perusing newspapers or studying the empty space on the other side of their pints. The landlady wasn’t about. The barmaid, a brawny young woman with blonde hair permed to within an inch of its life, furnished me with a mug of black coffee. I described the Cairn and Heather duo to her. Had she seen them lately?
‘Yeah, they were in last night,’ she confirmed. She yanked open the dishwasher and thick steam rose briefly between us.
‘They come in here a lot then?’
‘Not really, no. What you want with them, anyway?’ She began stacking the glasses on their shelves below the bar top.
‘They . . . kind of hired me to look into something for them and I’d like to give them a progress report.’
‘Mm, kind of hired? I thought you’d have enough employment explaining away the dead body in the back of your car.’
‘Does everybody know about that?’ I wondered.
‘Yup.’
A couple of the regulars nodded sagely without bothering to look up.
‘Did you know the man? Albert Barrington?’
‘Never heard of him. Not known in these parts until after his demise.’
The regulars shook their heads. I realized what it was. It was altogether too quiet in this place, there was no music playing yet and not enough customers. Cosy, but perhaps a bit too cosy right now. ‘Do you know where the kids might live?’
She shook her head and continued stacking. ‘Somewhere in the valley perhaps. Not in Larkhall, never seen them around except in here sometimes. Definitely not regulars.’ The regulars shook their heads like a bunch of radio-controlled toys.
‘You wouldn’t know their surname, then?’
She didn’t. I pushed my card across the bar. ‘Could you give me a ring next time they’re in? I’d appreciate it.’
‘As if we didn’t have enough to do in here without . . . yeah, all right, if it isn’t too busy and if I remember and if they happen to be in when I’m in, I only work three shifts now.’ She swiped the card off the bar and stuck it into a pile of papers wedged next to the till. Not much point in me waiting by the phone then.
I finished my coffee and left. I had stuff to do. I dialled Jill’s number, wanting to reassure her that I thought I could pull the museum job off, but there was no answer. Then I armed myself with some cash, rode to the catalogue showroom place on the Upper Bristol Road and bought a large black rucksack, a pencil torch, a bolt cutter, two combination bicycle locks, a padlock and a couple of aluminium fire escape ladders since I had no illusions that I could learn the rope work of abseiling in just a couple of days. In fact the less I thought about climbing the better I was able to suppress the panic trying to bubble up from behind my navel. These long ladders made from lightweight chains and treads, designed to get you out of a burning building, appealed to my low-tech mind.
Back at Mill House Tim was still presiding over the sitting room from his nest on the floor in front of the fire. The paraphernalia of convalescence spilled out around him like flotsam from a shipwreck: painkillers, box of tissues, his phone, his laptop, his iPod and headphones, bottles of Pilsner Urquell (‘I got bored!’), a bag of doughnuts and a stack of Annis’s M.C. Beaton novels.
Since Tim couldn’t join us anywhere else it only seemed natural that headquarters moved into the sitting room. Soon Annis and I added to the chaos by spreading maps and pictures I’d taken of the museum on the floor and dumping other paraphernalia of the forthcoming heist everywhere. Annis and I pored over the large-scale map of Bath. While I had been at Jake’s to scrounge the dinghy Annis had scouted out a place to launch and recover it from. The closest place where we could get access to the Avon upriver from Pulteney Weir was a long way out, opposite Kensington Meadows and the playing fields. Here Annis had found a farmer’s access road to the meadow we could use. It still meant carrying the inflated dinghy and its engine a hundred and fifty yards through the meadow to the water, but we
might manage to do it unobserved. That side of the river appeared completely dark at night, especially when viewed from the well-lit Kensington side.
None of this seemed quite real, it felt much more like planning a movie sequence than something we were going to attempt in the real world of police, courts and crowded prisons. Tim’s lugubrious comments didn’t help.
‘Well, it’s been nice knowing you two . . .’
‘Rubbish, we’ll pull it off, no sweat. The more unlikely, the more James Bondian, the better. No one will expect it and we’ll be out of there before they know what’s hit them.’ I didn’t feel any of this excessive optimism. I felt absolutely certain that one day I would write about it from a prison cell, or even a hospital bed en route to a prison cell. Still, all in a good cause . . .
‘They’ll scoop you up and bag you before you’ll manage to lay a finger on The Dancer. The whole thing stinks. Somebody, and it stands to reason it was the fuzz, followed me for days. They know something. They know Aqua Investigations is up to something.’
‘I didn’t notice any surveillance while I was out.’ Annis munched thoughtfully on one of the dozens of mini doughnuts she had brought back for Tim. ‘And I really looked, tried to catch them out.’
‘Neither have I.’ I didn’t say that even now I had the distinct feeling an invisible net had already been thrown over us, that whatever I did, wherever I went, someone was watching. The darkening windows suddenly made me feel exposed. I got up and closed the curtains on all of them. I tried to be casual about it, but looked hard into the gathering darkness, looking for any sign of movement beyond the rain. A hopeless thing to do. A whole battalion could hide out there and as long as they weren’t wearing Day-Glo uniforms I wouldn’t see them.