A Death to Record

by Rebecca Tope

  ‘Yes,’ Deirdre agreed distractedly. ‘Well, he’s dead now, anyway.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Tom agreed. ‘And it’ll be hard to find anybody that’s sorry.’

  ‘Right – time we got some lunch,’ Den announced, as he and Young Mike emerged from the O’Farrell cottage. ‘Know any good places round here?’

  Mike considered. ‘There’s the Limediggers, couple of miles away. My dad used to go there once in a while. Probably changed hands and been grocklised by now, but I reckon it’s the nearest.’

  ‘Right then.’ Den was in no mood to argue.

  The Limediggers Free House stood flush with the road, space for cars carved out of an adjacent field and a sad-looking garden on a sloping bank behind it, boasting three or four picnic-style tables. Not exactly grocklised, but enough to tempt a scatter of hungry passing tourists in the season. Den expected to find it empty at one-thirty on a January Wednesday.

  He was wrong. Inside, there was one large bar, with high-backed antique seats, many of them turned to face a massive log fire. At the back of the room tables were set up for meals; all of them were in use. There was a babble of voices, a clatter of cutlery and the welcoming scent of woodsmoke. It was also very warm. Thank God for plain clothes, thought Den, peeling off his thick jacket almost at once.

  But the plain clothes failed to serve their pretended purpose. It was quickly evident that most of the people present knew just who he and Mike were. Den’s height, and the fact that he’d grown up in Okehampton and gone to the local school, made him a familiar figure.

  The landlady was slim and nervy. She rushed up and down the bar trying to anticipate orders almost before they were out of people’s mouths. If they hesitated between ham and cheddar cheese sandwiches, she jittered impatiently on the spot. She looked to be about forty-five, and was clearly determined to appear at least ten years younger. When Den approached her, she frowned up at him. ‘If you want food, you’ll have to order it now. The kitchen closes at two.’

  ‘We’ll have two stilton ploughmans,’ he said briskly. ‘And two pints of Bass. Okay?’

  ‘Fine,’ she shot back at him, glancing automatically along the bar to check for any incipient queues. Nobody showed the slightest sign of needing her services.

  ‘Does Gordon Hillcock drink here?’ he asked the woman, as she set the pints down in front of him. Mike had taken up a position on one of the high-backed seats, and was gazing dreamily into the blazing logs.

  ‘From Dunsworthy?’ she made a show of asking, although Den knew she’d been anticipating the question. He nodded. ‘Now and then,’ she admitted. ‘He and his family generally come here for their supper on a Thursday.’

  ‘Every week?’

  She nodded carelessly.

  ‘What about Sean O’Farrell? Did he drink here?’

  The woman laughed. ‘That’ll be the day.’ She glanced at a group of young drinkers ranged along a wooden bench. ‘Six Bells lot, he was. Wouldn’t go down too well if he’d ’a shown his face here.’

  Den examined the group: three boys and two girls, leaning in together, talking intently. ‘Who are they?’ he asked. ‘Students?’

  ‘One or two might be. Couple of them work at the Nature Conservancy. They’re an animal rights group.’

  Den looked more closely, but failed to recognise any of the youngsters, in spite of the clue. He’d been involved with animal rights people before – hunt protesters specifically – and this group was evidently something different.

  ‘So why wouldn’t they get along with O’Farrell?’ he asked the impatient landlady.

  ‘Why ask me?’ she demanded, casting worried looks around the bar. ‘It’s got nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Just answer the question,’ he told her fiercely. ‘You know full well who I am. This is a murder inquiry, in case you didn’t realise. Do you want me to formally take you in for questioning? I think you’d find that a lot more embarrassing.’

  She tossed her head, refusing to be intimidated. ‘Well, it’s no secret,’ she said defiantly. ‘Sean O’Farrell had it in for badgers. He didn’t like this limited cull business – said they should all be shot, for giving his cows TB. Shouted his mouth off about it everywhere he went.’

  Den nodded his thanks, and left it at that. He knew when he’d pushed someone to the limit.

  Mike was waiting for him close to the roaring log fire, and Den took the beer over. ‘I’m just going to have a chat with that little lot,’ he said, tilting his head towards the five young people. ‘Won’t be long.’

  There was no room for him to sit down, so he leant over one end of the bench, an arm stretched along its width to support him. ‘Hiya,’ he said affably. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Den Cooper, in case you’re wondering. Mind if I have a quick word?’

  Nearest him was a girl in her late teens, with a thick knitted scarf hanging loose around her neck. Something about her seemed familiar. She looked up at him enquiringly, her broad face showing no trace of suspicion or wariness. Next to her sat a stocky youth, bundled into a navy fleece jacket; he showed more signs of anxiety. ‘It’d help if I could just have your names,’ Den added in a quiet voice.

  ‘What for?’ demanded the youth. The whole row was now staring at him in silence.

  Den squatted down, and kept his face blank. ‘You’ve probably heard that there was a fatality at Dunsworthy yesterday?’

  Various expressions of ignorance came from all five. The girl nearest him seemed seriously alarmed. ‘Dunsworthy?’ she repeated. ‘My mum goes there. I think she was there yesterday – yes, I’m sure she was.’

  ‘Who’s your mum?’

  ‘Watson. Deirdre Watson.’ Aha, thought Den. Hence the familiar face. She had her mother’s hair and jawline, and direct gaze.

  ‘Sam?’ the boy at the other end of the row called her. ‘What’s he talking about?’

  ‘You honestly don’t know?’ Den found it hard to believe them. ‘Everybody else here seems to have heard all about it.’ He swept the bar with his gaze, noticing that nobody would meet his eye.

  ‘We’re too busy for gossip,’ said the girl righteously. ‘We’re having a meeting.’

  ‘This isn’t gossip. This is a friendly chat, made in the course of our enquiries. The fact is, Sean O’Farrell, the Dunsworthy herdsman, died yesterday. If you watch the local telly, or read the Morning News tomorrow, you’ll hear all about it, I shouldn’t wonder. How many of you knew him?’

  ‘O’Farrell?’ said the girl in the middle of the row. ‘We don’t like him.’

  The childish simplicity of the statement seemed to annoy her friends. ‘Susie!’ two of them reproached her.

  ‘Well, we don’t. Everybody knows he’s one of the enemy.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Den cut through the growing mutters flying between them. ‘I know about the badgers. Look—’ he stood up again, and produced his notebook. ‘Just a quick list of names and addresses, and if it seems important, we’ll maybe get back to you with a few more questions. And I’ll leave you my number, so you can phone me if you think there’s anything I ought to know. Right?’

  One by one they recited their details, their tones varying from an eagerness to please (Susie Marchand) to a noticeable sullenness (Jeremy Page – the stocky lad next to Sam Watson). The remaining two identified themselves as Paul Tyler and Gary Champion, who seemed the oldest by some years. Den ventured one step further. ‘Have any of you any connections with Dunsworthy?’

  Those on both sides of Gary Champion nudged him encouragingly. ‘My kid brother’s girlfriend lives there,’ he admitted. ‘Abigail O’Farrell. But I hadn’t heard what’d happened to her dad,’ he added earnestly. Den noted him as a slow learner, more comfortable around people younger than himself.

  Den made another note, and closed his book. ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ he told them. ‘You’ve been very helpful – thanks.’

  As he walked away, he heard Susie Marchand say excitedly, ‘Well, if Sean O’Farrell’s dead—’ before
the others hushed her.

  ‘It’s nice in here, eh?’ Mike commented peaceably, when Den went back to him. The ploughmans he’d ordered had arrived, and he tucked into his lunch with enthusiasm.

  Sitting across the low table from them were two men in their seventies, a Jack Russell and a springer spaniel curled contentedly at their feet. It made a pleasing picture – the men could almost be in their own home, enjoying retirement and the sense of finally having all the time in the world. They stared at Den and Mike unashamedly while they ate their lunch. Finally one of them leant forward. ‘You’ll be the Cooper boy,’ he said to Den. ‘The one as got jilted by young Beardon maid. Best get it sorted now, though, and not when there’s two or three kiddies in the picture.’

  Whoever first spread the idea that only women were interested in gossip must have been a complete moron, Den decided, forcing himself not to recoil at the unexpected recognition.

  ‘That your partner?’ asked the other man, nodding towards Mike. ‘Doesn’t ’n get to ask any questions of his own?’

  Den grinned, and shook his head. ‘His job’s to save me a place by the fire,’ he said. ‘And he assists me in putting together all the bits and pieces I pick up from helpful gentlemen like you.’

  ‘Bad business at Dunsworthy,’ the first one said, with an air of having considered and then dismissed the idea of teasing Den for a bit longer. He had thick grey hair and a low brow; his eyes peered out from under an overhang of untidy thatch. His friend was bigger and wore a greasy-looking cap. Both had straight backs, and the stiff movements suggestive of bad hips. Both faces carried weathered wrinkles around the eyes, and deeply-carved grooves between nose and mouth. The one with the cap had a canyon between his eyes deep enough to lose yourself in. How many decades of frowning must it have taken to form such a feature? Den wondered. And yet he looked an amiable fellow in every other respect.

  ‘You know the Hillcocks?’

  ‘Oh, aye,’ they both smiled. ‘Everybody knows the Hillcocks. Last June – no, tell a lie, June before that – they gave a party for old Hilda’s century, in the village hall. Still going strong, they say – though no one ever sees her any more. Dare say your Beardon lass gets a glimpse now and then.’ The old man twinkled at Den, but not unkindly.

  ‘What about Sean O’Farrell?’

  ‘Herdsman that got n’self killed.’ The two men nodded, all trace of amusement suddenly wiped away. ‘Not a thing to joke about. Don’t get many murders in these parts – leastways …’ Den could see them remembering the events surrounding Lilah’s family, three years earlier, and the unsavoury killing of a young Quaker since then.

  ‘You’re right,’ he assured them. ‘Only two or three a year at most.’

  ‘Reckon you must get a bit out of practice,’ the man with the cap observed, deadpan. Den found that, despite the personal remarks, he was rather enjoying himself. He sipped his beer appreciatively, and glanced at Mike; the young detective constable raised his tankard amicably.

  Den returned to his informants. ‘So you knew Sean, did you?’

  Both men regarded him steadily. ‘Can’t say we saw a lot of him,’ said the low-browed one.

  ‘Wouldn’t have come here, anyhow,’ said the other. ‘Drank at the Bells, over to West Tavy. That’s the farm workers’ meeting place. Quite a club they’ve got going, so they say.’

  Den swigged more Bass, and nodded. ‘So I’ve been hearing,’ he agreed. ‘I bet you two’re thankful to be out of farming, things being the way they are. Though Hillcock seems to be doing well enough.’

  ‘He’s lucky there’s no loan on Dunsworthy. ’Tis that makes the difference. And he’s not only reliant on milk, like some. Though it’s bad all round this time – never seen it like this before. Hillcocks’ll come through, all the same. Leastways, ’e would have done, without this business.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Hillcock lands himself in gaol, that’ll knock ’em right back. Can’t see poor old Speedwell running the place.’ Both men laughed. ‘Dare say your girlfriend’s going to find herself taking charge – if she sticks around.’ Den watched as the same penny dropped as had dropped with Claudia Hillcock, and Lilah herself. ‘Come to think of it, you’d be well pleased then, shouldn’t wonder. Chances are she might go back to you, if her new bloke turns out to be a murderer.’

  Den struggled to maintain his composure, and looked down at the empty plates on the table. ‘Can’t stay here all day,’ he announced heartily. ‘Ready, Mike?’

  Mike took the hint, and wiped a hand across his mouth. Together they got to their feet. ‘Thanks for the chat,’ Den said to the old men, who showed every sign of being settled for the afternoon.

  They nodded to him in unison, and the one with the cap raised a gnarled hand in a friendly salute. He had a twinkle in his eye that Den found disconcerting. Perhaps by that age everything was amusing, laid on for your personal entertainment.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘What did those kids have to tell you?’ Mike asked, as they got back into the car. Den didn’t reply; he was too preoccupied with wondering whether everyone in West Devon knew about him and Lilah, and whether or not they thought he ought to be working on the Dunsworthy case. There’d been no hint of disapproval from the two old men – wry amusement and idle curiosity seemed to be their only reactions. But was it possible that locals trusted the police to be entirely objective, in the circumstances? The implication was that Hillcock was so self-evidently guilty that it scarcely mattered who conducted the investigation. Or was that mere wishful thinking?

  Belatedly he answered Mike. ‘Sounds as if we should have gone to the Bells at West Tavy for our lunch,’ he remarked. ‘D’you know it?’

  Mike shook his head. ‘Off the beaten track, that is. You wonder how places like that ever keep going.’

  In the car, Den invited Mike’s observations. ‘Funny sort of atmosphere,’ the constable responded. ‘I was listening in to that group the other side of the fire from us. The usual stuff about how farming’s going down the tubes. How their wives and daughters are bringing in more money than they are – women running the whole place these days, one of them said. They’re all pretty miserable – even scared, from the sound of it. Not much hope for the future.’

  Den nodded. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Do you think it makes any sense for us to connect what’s happened at Dunsworthy with the things that’re going on in farming? How would that work?’

  Mike scratched his nose. ‘Well, if Sean had asked his boss for more money, say, that might have been the final straw. Or if they’d had some major row about selling off the cows. Maybe Sean told Hillcock they’d never be viable.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Den dubiously. ‘But that would be more likely to work the other way around. If Hillcock told O’Farrell he was going out of milk, and didn’t need a herdsman any more – then wouldn’t Sean be the aggressor?’

  ‘Maybe he was. Maybe he grabbed the fork first but Hillcock wrestled it off him and jabbed him with it in self-defence.’

  ‘Yeah,’ repeated Den. A gloom was rapidly descending on him, as he assessed his morning’s work. ‘We’ve got nowhere, basically,’ he muttered. ‘Not a thing that would stand up as evidence. The whole neighbourhood’s taking it as read that Hillcock’s the killer – and if we’re not very careful, we’ll never build a case against him. And I bet you the bugger knows it.’

  ‘Should we call the DI and see if there’s anything new from Forensics?’ Mike had a knack for optimism that Den was only now beginning to appreciate. ‘It’s going to be down to them, basically, isn’t it?’

  ‘Okay.’ Den reached for his phone and keyed in Danny’s number; the Inspector answered on the second warble. Den gave a summary of the interviews with Heather and Abigail O’Farrell, and Ted Speedwell, plus the oddments they’d gleaned in the Limediggers, before asking, ‘Any progress from Forensics?’

  ‘Give them a chance,’ Hemsley protested. ‘You don’t get results that fast.’

 
‘No, but—’

  ‘We’ve got all the pictures pinned up. Barn, yard, footprints, tyre tracks. Not that they’re very exciting. Everything’s overlaid with about a million cow footprints. And a muck scraping doo-dah got there before this morning’s team could show up. Did you see what they’d done?’

  Den tried to remember. ‘The tapes were a bit messed up,’ he offered.

  ‘More than a bit. From what I hear, it’s close to deliberately interfering with a criminal investigation. Someone drove a tractor over it.’

  Den groaned inwardly. He thought he knew who that might have been. ‘I don’t suppose there’d have been anything left to see, anyway. The cows were all over the yard last night in any case.’

  ‘Lucky for whoever it was, then,’ the DI growled.

  Den shivered at Lilah’s narrow escape. He was in no doubt that she’d taken it into her head to make sure nothing would be found that could incriminate Hillcock any further. She knew about dirty farmyards and police investigations – and must have decided that they’d hardly prosecute a herd of cows for obstructing their enquiries. As scenes of crime went, a cow assembly yard must rate top for obliteration of evidence. But it had been a silly thing to do, all the same, and he felt a twist of irritation with her.

  Hemsley was still on the line.

  ‘It’s not looking too promising, is it?’ Den said. ‘We’ve got no proof at all that it was Hillcock – and it’s not easy to see how we’re ever going to get any.’

  ‘Give Forensics a chance. It’s barely twenty-four hours. If we find O’Farrell’s blood on Hillcock’s clothes, then with a bit of fancy footwork on the angle of the fork, weight, height of the attacker – we’re in with a chance. You don’t think it was the Speedwell chap, then?’

  ‘I don’t think so, no. But at this rate it wouldn’t be hard to put together a case against him as good as the one against Hillcock. It stinks, sir.’

  ‘Calm down, Cooper. Some of that stuff you’ve got from the pub could do with a bit of processing. There might be something in there. Go and talk to the Speedwell wife – then the Hillcock women – you haven’t even started on them yet, have you? Oh, and be there for this afternoon’s milking. Check noise levels, and the way it all works.’