Scaring Crows

by Priscilla Masters

  ‘Where is Ruthie?’

  But if Joanna had hoped that abrupt tactics might shock the old lady into a confession she was disappointed. Hannah Lockley too could be as inscrutable as a sphinx.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said simply. ‘So it’s no use your keep asking me. I have no idea where she is. And I have no idea why she’s staying away. It’s a mystery.’

  Mike stepped forward. ‘You must have some idea.’

  She looked startled, intimidated by Korpanski’s bulk. ‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘I don’t. Please, don’t try and bully me.’ She looked from one to the other like a nervous rabbit, eyes flicking jerkily. ‘I’m every bit as confused as you are.’

  ‘So you don’t think she’s running away from a double murder?’

  The old lady looked shocked. ‘Most certainly not,’ she said. ‘If you knew Ruthie you’d understand.’

  Round and round, Joanna thought irritably. Round and round. And they were getting nowhere.

  She must try another tactic.

  ‘You didn’t tell us everything about Jack, did you?’

  The old lady looked affronted. ‘I did ...’

  Mike picked up on Joanna’s tack. ‘You didn’t tell us that Jack enjoyed setting fire to things.’

  The old lady’s manner changed to one of furtiveness. Her eyes slid away from both the detectives.

  ‘Who told you?’ she said at last.

  ‘One of your neighbours.’

  Her lip curled. ‘I bet it was that ...’

  ‘Your bloody brother-in-law and nephew are shot,’ Mike spoke furiously. ‘Your niece has disappeared. Don’t you understand? We have to know …’

  Hannah Lockley drew herself up to her full height. ‘It has nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Let us decide. Miss Lockley, we don’t know what’s important in this case and until we do even if you go to the toilet in the middle of the night we need to know.’

  ‘There’s no need to be crude, young man.’ Hannah Lockley stared him out.

  Joanna smiled. Somehow, this old lady had got the better of Mike, though he was twice her size and had the authority of the Staffordshire Police department behind him. She was reminded of the scorched rug Barraclough had rolled up on his first day’s investigations. ‘Did Jack ever attempt to burn down the farm?’

  Hannah Lockley was suddenly subdued. ‘He had to be watched,’ she admitted.

  ‘When we first came,’ Joanna said, ‘you mentioned ramblers. Are there many ramblers in this area?’

  The old lady looked at her with something approaching respect. ‘You’ve got quite a memory, young lady,’ she said grudgingly. ‘I did mention ramblers and there are too many. Especially in this sort of weather. Crowded as a street in the middle of London, it is sometimes. There is a public footpath crosses the boundary between Hardacre and Fallowfield. But they don’t stick to it. They wander through the farms, into people’s gardens. Cause no end of trouble. They leave the gates open, let their dogs chase sheep. And apologize? No they don’t.’

  Mike’s dark eyes were sharply intelligent. ‘Would their path take them anywhere near the farmhouse door?’

  She could read his mind. The previous weekend and the days following had been the hottest recorded temperatures in Staffordshire for twenty years. Half of the population of Leek might well have been wandering the footpath. The local residents took full advantage of the surrounding countryside. Not a quiet, rural area then, but busy and full of trippers. The old lady brightened. ‘The footpath crosses the boundary on the Top Field.’

  Joanna never could get used to the different names for various fields. They all looked the same to her. ‘Which do you call the Top Field?’

  ‘Right by the door of the farm, across from the lane. But surely ... ramblers ... What for? Why would they want to shoot a couple of farmers?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  But now Joanna had pursued one seemingly insignificant fact she was remembering another.

  “Tell me about the cattle that went missing.’

  Again the old lady looked cross. ‘Can’t we keep anything from you? That has no bearing on the shootings. I’m sure. And I don’t know how you came to know about it anyway.’

  ‘Just tell us,’ Mike said.

  Hannah Lockley looked at him with dislike. ‘It started at the very end of last summer/ the old lady began reluctantly. ‘Just as the leaves were turning. A few good cows went missing. We all thought it was Pinkers.’ She looked from one to the other with a face taut with concern. ‘You have to understand. We never had any proof. Four of Pinkers’ best milkers had gone dry. Dave ...’

  ‘Shackleton?’ Mike interrupted.

  ‘Yes. Dave Shackleton. He told us Pinkers’ milk production was down, that he was having real problems. If you lose production, let Milk Marque down, they cut your cheque. And then your quota. And you never get the quota back. So Pinkers really did have a problem. One day Aaron went to fetch in the cows. Early one morning it was, ready for milking. He came in and said that a couple had gone missing. Hell to play there was. It’s a big farm but our cows are tagged, in the ear. If they had gone on to the road someone would have spotted them and fetched them back. We took a look around. There was no gaps in the hedge and the gate was fastened. So someone must have taken them out of the field. Naturally we thought of Pinkers. So we went down there and took Noah with us. He always had a good nose did Noah. Could sniff a Hardacre cow out like it was smothered in peppermint oil. Anyway, he went wild outside one of Pinkers’ cowsheds. We tried the door but it was locked. Next thing we know is Pinkers is standing there, his shotgun pointing right at us. “One bloody step”, he says, “and the dog gets it. One more step after that and you does too’’.’ Miss Lockley gave Joanna a bold stare. ‘Have you ever had a gun pointin’ right at you, Missus?’

  It gave Joanna the perfect chance to redress the score. ‘I’m not a missus,’ she said, with dignity. ‘I’m a Miss, like you. I have no husband to thank for my position either, Miss Lockley.’ The old lady flushed.

  ‘But to answer your question no. I have not had a gun pointed at me and I hope I never shall.’

  But it was a vain hope. Villains were getting ever more violent. And guns were readily available, without licences or with them. Joanna shivered. It was only a matter of time before she too stared down the barrel of a gun, as had Aaron and Jack Summers.

  She gave Mike a weak smile. ‘So did you get the cows back?’

  Hannah Lockley shook her head. ‘We didn’t,’ she said. ‘But Dave Shackleton told us about the miracle that had happened in the meantime. Surprise surprise,’ she said sourly, Tinkers’ milk production was back up to quota.’

  ‘And the tags?’

  ‘You can easily take the tags out and the pretend barren cows have miraculously turned productive.’

  ‘And the accreditation papers?’

  Hannah Lockley looked scornful. ‘Barren cows can go in the freezer. Stolen cattle can easily take up their identity.’ She chuckled. ‘Not the best of steaks but the cheapest.’ She gave Joanna a hard stare. ‘Do you believe in virgin births?’

  ‘Uumm ...’

  ‘I don’t suppose I need to tell a clever young lady like you that calves come from bulls and cows,’ the old lady persisted. ‘The vet does the insemination if you pay him. Otherwise you need a bull. And cows what don’t have calves don’t produce milk neither. Do you get me? So when old Doric, Aaron’s bull goes missing and Pinkers’ cows start getting fatter with calves and no vet has been in attendance or semen bought we know who the daddy is. Now do you understand?’

  They both nodded.

  ‘But there was no proof, was there?’ Joanna asked.

  ‘Not a shred,’ the old lady said comfortably. ‘Not a single shred of evidence. But then who needs evidence? Not that the courts would be interested in a couple of farmers squabbling over some animals. Now what else do you want to know?’

  ‘I want to know what Ruthie’s relationship
was like with her father.’

  The question earned Joanna a hostile stare. ‘Perfectly normal. However deep you dig you won’t find anything there, I promise you.’

  ‘And when did you last see Ruthie?’

  About a month ago,’ she admitted. ‘But I don’t see her every day.’

  ‘Wasn’t it unusual not to see her for such a long period?’

  The old lady shrugged. ‘It happens,’ she said, ‘sometimes.’

  ‘Perhaps she’s with a boyfriend.’

  Miss Lockley’s face softened. ‘I have wondered,’ she said. ‘She is such a pretty girl. And I know Dave Shackleton’s quite fond of her. He gets on well with Jack too. And a young family will be so good for Hardacre.’

  ‘How did Ruthie feel about Shackleton?’

  ‘I’m not too sure about that,’ she said. ‘Personally I think she’s too good for him. But who else is there?’ Her accompanying smile was anything but comfortable.

  ‘Miss Lockley...’ Joanna stood up. She was more than ready for her lunch. ‘We may ask you to come back to the farm with us at some point, just to see if you can spot anything different.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Joanna confessed. ‘Anything that may help us to discover who murdered two members of your family. Maybe tomorrow? Perhaps in the afternoon?’

  The old lady gave a determined nod of her head. ‘I’ll come,’ she said, ‘provided it’s all been cleared up.’

  As they closed the small gate behind them Joanna felt a sudden wave of confusion. ‘We’ve been there for more than an hour,’ she said. ‘And yet we’ve found out nothing.’

  Mike was ahead of her. ‘You call that nothing? The fact that Pinkers threatened them with a shotgun after they’d found out about his petty pilfering? I don’t call that nothing, Jo.’

  ‘I suppose it makes him worth a second visit but this business with the cows...’ Mike was striding ahead of her. ‘It’s hardly a motive for murder, is it?’

  Mike turned then, shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun. ‘Maybe not to you and maybe not to me. But to these farming sorts. They have different priorities.’

  ‘Oh come on, Mike.’ The heat was making her irritable, the swarms of buzzing flies doubly so. ‘You can’t seriously think Pinkers blasted the pair of them into Kingdom Come over a couple of cows.’

  ‘I think it’s possible,’ he said stubbornly.

  ‘Then what about Ruthie?’ She turned to face him. ‘Where does she fit in to all this?’

  But Mike had no answer to that one.

  They drove back towards the town to find a pub with a garden that served meals and pulled up outside the Three Horseshoes, famous both for its truly delicious home cooking as well as the stupendous views towards the Roaches, a rocky outcrop overlooking the moorland. They settled at one of the tables, Joanna baring her legs to the sunshine.

  The action reminded her of something. She took her sunglasses off, folded them carefully and faced Mike across the table.

  ‘What about this rambler thing, Mike? Worth pursuing, do you think?’

  He gave her a withering glance. ‘Rambling – at seven in the morning, Joanna?’

  She sighed. ‘So you don’t think it’s worth an appeal?’

  He put his pint glass down firmly on the table. ‘Now I didn’t say that.’

  2.30 p.m.

  The team were assembled back at the Incident caravan and there was a pile of faxes. Mike picked up the top one. ‘Preliminary reports on the shotgun,’ he said. ‘Linked with the murders, injuries, etc. Wadding taken from Aaron Summers’ chest matches the stuff from inside the barrel of the gun.’ He gave Joanna one of his rare, broad grins. ‘That should be enough evidence to please the courts.’

  There was a stirring around the room. No one needed to point out that for the gathered evidence to even reach the courts they would have to produce a viable suspect.

  Mike glanced through the second sheet. ‘Blurred prints of all the family. Suggest miscreant was wearing gloves.’

  There was a titter from the back of the room.

  Joanna sighed. ‘Anything of real value?’

  ‘Prints on the photographs, Jack Summers.’

  ‘Jack Summers? But the hands are ...’

  ‘They might be Mothershaw’s,’ Mike said grimly. ‘But the prints are those of her brother, the deceased.’

  The sentence conjured up the dreadful picture of the surprised face, glancing down, the meaty fists trying to stem the flow of blood from the gaping wound in his chest. Joanna shivered.

  ‘She must have showed the picture to her brother.’

  And now there was something else bothering her. Why had Ruthie not been seen for a month? Where had she been?

  Because the picture didn’t fit in with her being the killer. She couldn’t have vanished for a month only to appear in the doorway, the shotgun in her hand. Or could she?

  What sort of a woman was Ruthie Summers?

  Chapter Nine

  3.30 p.m.

  ‘So where now?’

  The Incident Room was stifling. There seemed more flies than ever, great, black clouds of the things. And she could have sworn they were bigger, noisier and more inclined to settle on her bare legs and arms. Even on her hair. She shook her head, annoyed.

  They drank luke-warm coke and she made a decision.

  ‘Let’s take the car up to the Rowans’ farm,’ she said suddenly. ‘Ruthie worked there. It’s just possible she could be hiding up there.’

  Mike looked dubious. ‘With all the publicity?’

  ‘Well let’s go anyway,’ she said irritably as a bluebottle with a buzz like a Spitfire landed on her arm. ‘I can’t stay here, Mike.’

  So they drove along the bumpy lane passing Fallow- field, sleepy, with no sign of human activity, before turning out on to the main road and travelling the half mile to the track that led to the Rowans’ farm. The Rowans went in for tourist accommodation. Three gold coronets sat beneath the name on a swinging green sign. They rattled across the cattle grid before climbing the slight incline towards the prosperous-looking farm nestling into the side of the hill. The drive was smooth and without ruts, carefully tarmacked, the verges neat and well tended, an electric fence keeping the cattle from straying. The stone house at the top looked in good condition with original stone mullions. All looked neat, organized and in good order. Joanna pulled the car into the yard and switched the engine off. Ahead was a tall Dutch barn neatly stacked with hay-bales. To the left was a long row of barn conversions, each one with the twee name of a bird painted around a picture on an oval metal plaque. There was a Robin Cottage, a Magpie Cottage, a Thrush and a Blackbird Cottage. Above the name each had a hanging basket filled with red and blue flowers, salvias and lobelias. There was a pale green Mercedes parked outside Blackbird Cottage and the door was standing open. A child ran out, stared at the two police officers and ran straight back in again. They crunched across the gravel to the front door of the farmhouse.

  Again there were signs of zealous work. The path was swept, the flowerbeds tended. No weeds. Someone worked very hard to keep this place attractive. Through the front door wafted a pleasing scent of polish and cooking, cakes and a casserole. The entire atmosphere was one of well controlled domesticity and when Mrs Rowan came out to meet them the illusion was furthered.

  A size ten, neatly dressed in a short-sleeved check shirt, tied at the waist and skin tight jeans, chin length blonde hair pleasantly ruffled by the wind. She looked about thirty. And her husband who arrived a second later to take up his arm-squeezing position behind her was also dressed smartly, slim and dark with the attractive air of a reprobate. He too was impeccably dressed in cavalry twills and a white, polo necked shirt.

  Though the day was broiling neither was sweating and it struck Joanna that they seemed poles apart from the two moorland farmers whose murder she was investigating.

  She made brief introductions and noted that Mrs Rowan’s manner
s were as impeccable as her appearance. ‘Do come in,’ she said pleasantly. ‘Would you like a coffee?’ She gave Mike a conspiratorial smile. ‘Or a beer, Sergeant?’

  Mike replied stiffly. ‘Not on duty, thanks, Mrs Rowan.’

  ‘Oh – Arabella, please. And this is Neil, my husband. Shall we go into the kitchen?’

  It was a lovely room completely fitted with oak units, the ceiling criss-crossed with low beams festooned with sprigs of drying herbs and flowers. And at the far end was a dark green Aga. Joanna’s eyes wandered around the room approvingly. She would love this kitchen, with its scent of wood smoke, welcome even on such a hot day.

  Mrs Rowan slipped on an oven glove and fished a baking tray of a dozen or more scones out of the oven. All were perfectly symmetrical, wonderfully risen and uniformly browned. Joanna watched Mrs Rowan’s precise actions. This was how Matthew would like her to be. Domestic, neat, ordered – and home-bound.

  What had seemed at first pleasantly organized was now stifling. She shifted in her seat.

  Mrs Rowan stopped looking at Mike and focused her attention on Joanna. ‘I do holiday lets,’ she explained. ‘Barn conversions, home cooking, on the farm. People love it,’ she said, ‘especially the city dwellers. Especially families. They arrive in their green wellies and play farms for a week or two. They even begin to talk quite knowledgeably about Friesians and Herefords and Pot Bellied Pigs. They pay generously for this pleasure. And then they’re quite happy to return to their stuffy cities and money-spinning jobs.’

  Joanna was surprised at the note of mockery and cynicism in the woman’s voice. Why did Arabella Rowan dislike her clients so much? This was a well organized business, one which obviously earned her a good living. There was an air of prosperity at the Rowans’ farm which had been lacking from either Fallowfield or Hardacre. So why despise the people who paid for the privilege of spending their holidays in the country? Why bite the hand that feeds you, Mrs Rowan?

  She looked sharply at the woman and formed an opinion. She was clever, hard working and perceptive. She was also a perfectionist, obsessional and ambitious. She would not take kindly to anything that threatened her ordered existence. There was also a ruthless side to this woman and it was less attractive than the superficial version, the size ten, blonde, amenable, feminine woman.