A Death to Record

by Rebecca Tope

  Den found some encouragement in this; she obviously did glance outside now and then. ‘Is that Sean’s fault, would you say?’

  ‘Nasty sod,’ she spat suddenly. Den couldn’t suppress a smile. ‘What be ’ee laughin’ at?’ she demanded. ‘Dog got un. I zaw it. Screamin’ fit to bust, and Gordon just standin’ there. Serve ’un right, the boy zed. ’Twill end in trouble, I thunk – zee if I weren’t right, eh?’

  She fixed him with a look of such intelligence that it took his breath away. A deep, limpid glance, completely at odds with her previous demeanour as a confused old woman. ‘Was he teasing the dog, then?’ he asked her.

  ‘Made it vair mazed with teasing,’ she confirmed. ‘Nasty sod.’

  ‘Well, yesterday, somebody killed him,’ Den said slowly. ‘Out there in the yard.’ He walked to the window, pulled back the curtain and looked down. The corner where the worst of the bloodstains had been found was lit up by one of the high-wattage outside lights. ‘You can see it from here.’

  ‘I zeed ’un teasing the dog,’ she repeated.

  ‘That was a long time ago,’ he told her. ‘What about yesterday?’

  ‘’Tiz all the zame to me,’ she grinned. ‘But tid’n our Gordon you be wanting. Us’d never get by wi’out the boy. You leave ’un be. They be going vur to make me a great-granma, ifn ’ee leaves ’un be.’ A smile was followed by a sudden frown, as if she’d remembered a disconcerting truth that gave the lie to her words.

  It took a second for the import to make itself clear to Den. When it did, he clenched his jaw tight enough to crack his molars. The effort brought a stinging suggestion of tears to the place behind his eyes, as he remembered that Mike had reported a similar remark.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I think that’s all for now. I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you.’

  She raised one hand briefly, in a queenly gesture of dismissal. ‘Nasty sod,’ she muttered, and Den hoped it was still Sean O’Farrell she was alluding to.

  Mary Hillcock sat comfortably on the big old sofa in the sitting room, facing Den as he took the most formal chair in the room, balancing his notebook on one knee. He began by superfluously verifying her name and age, and her whereabouts on Tuesday afternoon. She answered him steadily, unsmiling, watching unblinking as he wrote down her replies. Her manner seemed to be everything he could ask for in a witness – concerned, attentive, thoughtful. Why then, he wondered, did he get a strong sense that he couldn’t trust her?

  ‘I’d like to get a bit of background,’ he said. ‘I understand the farm’s been in the family a long time?’

  ‘I was born here,’ she nodded. ‘So was Gordon. My father was about twelve, I think, when his parents moved here. It was during the war – they came from Hampshire.’

  ‘And is there a mortgage on the property?’

  She shook her head. ‘Daddy paid it off about five years before he died. It must be worth around fifteen hundred times what they paid for it. Frightening, really.’

  Den blinked. From the sound of it, someone had done the calculation quite recently. He supposed a farm of Dunsworthy’s size – two hundred acres or so – would have fetched about five thousand pounds in the 1940s. Possibly less. Now they were thinking in terms of £750,000, if the sums were right. He agreed with Mary – the idea really was frightening.

  ‘But nobody’s doing too well in farming these days?’ he suggested.

  ‘Too right,’ she nodded emphatically. ‘It’s only me and Mum that’s keeping it all going, at the moment. It’s very hard for poor Gordon, working such long hours, and not even breaking even most months. They’ve just put the price of cattle cake up again, you know, at the same time as milk prices are dropping. It’s a complete scandal.’

  She spoke placidly, like somebody repeating words that had become so familiar they’d lost much of their meaning.

  ‘Could you tell me anything about the other families living here? The Speedwells and O’Farrells? How long have they been with you?’

  She pursed her lips. ‘The O’Farrells came at the same time as my grandparents. Ted and Jilly came quite a bit after that. You’d have to ask them the precise dates.’

  ‘The Speedwells have a son, is that right? Did he grow up here?’

  She smiled. ‘Eliot, yes. He’s only a couple of years younger than me. We were playmates when we were little. I don’t see him much any more, though. He’s got himself a job at the pasty factory. Some managerial role. He was good friends with Sean,’ she added.

  ‘Oh?’ Den thought she looked sorry that she’d disclosed this snippet. He wondered whether he’d ever disentangle all the relationships that had been forged between three families over the course of generations.

  ‘Well, they grew up together,’ she said vaguely. ‘Eliot worked here until he was about twenty-two, and then he went into the Army. That surprised everybody, I must say. He didn’t last long – I think they threw him out, actually. I never found out why. I was going through my own bad patch at the time, and never heard the full story.’

  Den made a firm note. People didn’t get thrown out of the Army for nothing.

  ‘Now – Sean O’Farrell,’ he said, watching her face. Very little changed, apart from a small frown and a subtle hardening of her features. ‘How did you feel about him?’

  ‘I didn’t like him much. He seemed unduly brutal with the cows. No worse than a lot of others, I dare say, but these days it isn’t necessary. I don’t know why he always had to go for the stick or the fist when they’d do what he wanted much more easily if he just whistled at them and let them take their time.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t get involved with the cows?’

  ‘I don’t now. That’s partly because I couldn’t bear to see how he treated them.’

  ‘But didn’t your brother object? They’re his cows, after all.’

  Her frown deepened. ‘Gordon mostly managed not to notice,’ she said in a low voice, as if worried that her brother could somehow hear her. ‘It’s a bit of a family trait, that.’

  Den scratched his head, just above one ear, with his pencil. He took a deep breath. ‘So what else is going unnoticed?’

  Mary swallowed. ‘Well, I don’t suppose it matters much,’ she said, with a quick shake of her head, ‘and it’s probably going to sound a bit peculiar. I was thinking of something that happened a long time ago. It really isn’t a bit relevant.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you let me be the judge of that?’

  She made a face, as if chewing on the dilemma. ‘I spoke without thinking,’ she said. ‘I was remembering the way my mother used to ignore anything bad that might be going on. She’s not like that now. I suppose I meant Gordon had taken after her, in some way.’

  ‘I see,’ said Den. He did, up to a point. ‘So your brother knew Sean ill-treated the cows, but preferred to let it go unchallenged?’

  ‘Something like that,’ she agreed. ‘But you have to understand that men on farms are a law unto themselves. I had to grow up with that as a given. I could tell you terrible stories of suffering, exploited animals – none of them particularly unusual. You have to get used to it, steel yourself. But I seem to have got softer as I get older, and I really can’t cope with it any more.’

  ‘How much did you see of O’Farrell, on a daily basis?’

  ‘Practically nothing. Last summer, getting the hay in, we all lent a hand for a weekend – and quite honestly, since then, I don’t suppose I’ve exchanged more than ten words with him.’

  ‘But you didn’t like him. I’ve got that right, haven’t I?’ It seemed important that he should hear her say the actual words once more.

  She rubbed the back of one hand with the fingers of the other. ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘I didn’t like him.’

  In a rather awkward piece of choreography, Mary was replaced by Claudia, who sat straight-backed on the edge of the sofa, hands clasped in her lap. She seemed to Den oddly prim, despite her youthful looks and casual clothes. She had obviously recovered from the sho
ck of the previous evening and come to grips with the situation. This Claudia Hillcock was a lot more incisive after twenty-four hours in which to consider her son’s position.

  He opened with the same questions – name, age, nature of her employment. When she told him she was fifty-seven, he raised his eyebrows with a surprise he couldn’t conceal.

  ‘That’s right,’ she anticipated. ‘I was only eighteen when Gordon was born. And a useless mother I was, too.’

  ‘How old was your husband?’

  ‘Thirty-three.’

  ‘And Mrs Hillcock upstairs is his mother, I think you said last night?’

  ‘Yes. Norman would be well into his seventies now if he’d been alive.’

  ‘She mentioned a Daniel – who would that be?’

  Claudia smiled ruefully. ‘Her husband; my father-in-law. He died thirty-four years ago – a week before Mary was born, as it happens. Granny does tend to live in the past these days. It’s normal for someone of her age.’

  ‘And Gordon was born here?’

  ‘He was actually born in Plymouth. But we were living here at the time, yes.’

  ‘How well did you know Sean O’Farrell? I mean – did you work alongside him on the farm at any stage?’

  She frowned, in much the same way as her daughter had done. ‘Well, on and off, over the years. When my husband was ill, I lent a hand outside, but I’ve never done the milking. It’s an odd question – how well did I know him. He’s been here all his life, working with my husband and son. In that sense, I know him very well. But we hardly had a single meaningful conversation in all that time. I shouted at him once or twice, when I caught him tormenting the animals, but I was warned off that.’

  ‘Warned off? Who by?’

  ‘Norman and Gordon both told me I was out of order, that Sean was a good herdsman – just a bit primitive in his methods. All I could see was that the cows were scared of him. And with good reason. It was very unpleasant to watch him working with them. And yet he always got good yields out of them, which I suppose is the main thing these days.’

  ‘Last night – I did get the impression that you were not entirely surprised by what had happened.’

  She looked hard at the floor beside her feet, her eyes flickering in rapid thought. ‘Did you? I can’t think what gave you that impression. I was absolutely stunned – that’s the truth of it.’

  ‘That’s understandable,’ Den responded.

  ‘I do admit I’d been furious with Gordon yesterday morning,’ she said. ‘That might account for any apparent coolness between us, perhaps. But mostly, I’m sure it was pure shock.’

  ‘Why were you furious with him?’

  ‘Oh – he was insisting on going out on Saturday – to a political meeting. They’re talking about staging some sort of protest, marching to Westminster with a flock of sheep, that sort of thing.’

  ‘And you don’t approve?’

  ‘I think there are better ways of making a point.’

  ‘What about Sean? Would he have wanted to be involved in the protest?’

  Claudia snorted derisively. ‘I don’t think Gordon would give him the option. Although he has been getting political lately. Gordon found out about his little group at the Six Bells – and didn’t like it.’

  ‘Oh?’

  She tossed her head. ‘It seems they’d got very worked up about the badger cull, and wanted to take some sort of direct action. Gordon said it was muddying the waters, when they needed to be focused and united. Sean hadn’t the brains to follow anything through for long. Nor the passion. He didn’t care enough to be seriously involved.’

  ‘So – what did he care about? What might have got him excited?’

  She cocked her head on one side, eyebrows lifted as she contemplated the question. ‘I’ve no idea,’ she admitted, a few moments later. ‘I’ve always thought him rather – well, nerveless is the word I use. Bloodless might be better.’

  Den remembered what her work was. Presumably counsellors used that sort of label routinely.

  ‘His wife appears to have no complaints against him,’ he said. ‘Does that mean he had no vices? Drink? Gambling?’

  She laced her fingers together loosely, and let them lie in her lap – a gesture suggesting she’d given up any attempt to find answers to these questions. ‘You’re making me realise I hardly knew Sean at all,’ she said. ‘How funny.’

  ‘If I may say so – you don’t seem in the least upset by his death,’ Den commented dryly.

  ‘I won’t miss him,’ she conceded, candidly. ‘But I am very upset to think that Gordon might be in trouble because of the wretched man.’ She drew in a breath to say more, and then checked herself. Den look at her questioningly, but she remained silent.

  ‘Mrs O’Farrell’s illness,’ he remembered. ‘Can you tell me anything about that?’

  Claudia sat up straight. She was on familiar territory now. ‘Heather has ME, as I expect you know. She’s had it for six years. Before that, she was physically quite fit.’

  Den could hear another hidden message beneath the simple words.

  ‘Physically?’ he picked up.

  ‘Right.’ A degree of admiration gleamed in her eyes. ‘She was never entirely healthy in other respects. Socially maladroit, extremely dependent on Sean to protect her from the outside world. He rescued her from a highly unpleasant father, and brought her here, where he thought she’d feel safe. You never saw such a shy little thing as she was then. But she did improve dramatically, in those early years. Made a reasonable job of mothering Abby when she was little, and got on with her life, in her own somewhat limited way.’

  ‘And you were all friends – you three women?’ Den asked. ‘Four, with Mrs Speedwell, of course.’

  ‘Five, with Granny,’ Claudia reminded him. ‘You couldn’t say we were friends, exactly,’ she went on. ‘Class divisions run deep. Heather has scarcely read a book, or even been outside Devon. We’ve never had anything to talk about. She takes little interest in the farm – and neither do I, to be honest. But I like her well enough. I’m sympathetic towards her illness, and professionally quite frustrated that I’ve never been of the least assistance to her in overcoming it. Jilly Speedwell’s a good gossip, and more or less my own age. She and I drive into town now and then, and find plenty to chat about in the car. Jilly’s got more about her, anyway, having her job to keep her mind active, and a wise way with her. She comes out with some wonderful remarks sometimes.’

  ‘I’m sorry – I diverted you from the ME. What’s your opinion on that? I know there’s a lot of disagreement amongst doctors.’

  Claudia made a self-mocking face, shaking her head as if in warning. ‘You’ll wish you never got me started on that subject,’ she said. ‘But if you really want to know – I’m convinced that it’s a hysterical reaction to the way she lives. That’s not to say it isn’t real. She is genuinely ill – it just isn’t a physical illness. As I said, Heather has never really felt comfortable in public situations. With Abigail growing up, and Sean’s income being fairly limited, it was reasonable to expect her to find some sort of job. That’s one factor to bear in mind. There are others, that I don’t think we need to go into. Suffice it to say that she’s a classic example. Being an invalid has solved a number of problems for her – and the human mind is extremely clever at solving problems. A hundred years ago, she would have had “nervous trouble” or been one of Freud’s hysterical females. But please don’t make the common mistake of assuming that a psychosomatic illness isn’t real. She hurts every bit as much as someone with sciatica or arthritis, or anything else.’

  ‘But,’ Den interrupted, ‘couldn’t it be that Freud’s patients had a form of ME, as well, but it hadn’t been properly identified then?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Claudia said. ‘This is a new form of the same old syndrome. There’s an epidemic of ME at the moment – though I detect a definite lessening, now we’re in a new century. A lot of it stems from a general anxiety about soc
ial change and the unpredictable future.’

  Den scratched his ear with the pencil. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I get the idea. So, as far as you know, it wasn’t that Mrs O’Farrell had some specific shock six years ago? There’s nothing you can pinpoint as sparking off the illness?’

  Claudia shook her head, and Den could feel the interview’s impetus slowing down. He’d had a long day, and needed to go somewhere quiet for a drink and a think.

  ‘You work as a counsellor,’ he switched subjects abruptly. ‘Did you train for that?’

  ‘I counsel for Relate – couples, mainly. The training takes two or three years. I got the taste for study years ago, and that came as the last in a whole succession of courses.’

  ‘You managed to fit it all in with the farm and having children?’

  She gave him one of her rueful smiles. ‘Didn’t I say? Granny Hillcock did most of the child rearing for me. Gordon was much more hers than mine when he was little. I rather lost interest, to be honest. I went back to college at nineteen and did a degree. My husband was very good about it – he seemed quite proud of me, actually.’

  ‘So how long have you been counselling?’ he asked.

  ‘Three years, just about.’

  ‘It must teach you a lot about human nature.’

  She nodded. ‘It’s shown me what people are capable of,’ she said, a little grimly.

  ‘Good or bad?’

  ‘Bad, mostly. People can be incredibly cruel to each other. Compared to the mental cruelty that I’ve witnessed, skewering somebody in the stomach with a fork doesn’t seem quite as dreadful as you might think.’

  With a sigh, he closed his notebook. ‘Thank you very much for your time,’ he said formally. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’

  As he left, Mary went with him to the door. ‘I hope you’ve got all the answers you needed,’ she said, with a backward glance at the kitchen. She half closed the door behind her and they moved out into the porch, a wide covered area beyond the front door. ‘Actually – there are one or two things I could tell you about the milk recorder, if you’re interested,’ she murmured hesitantly.