Chapter Nine
Hannah Phillipson had offered her lunch at the smallholding, to take potluck with the unusual household. Honey was tempted to accept in the hope that some casual word, uttered in the pique of the moment, would furnish the connection that she was sure was to be found somewhere. (Had she but known it she had already been offered the clue that she wanted, if only she had noticed.) But the tensions evident between the trio would have made for an uncomfortable meal, the offer had been made grudgingly and she was expected back for lunch at the castle. She had a deep-rooted dislike of mind changing.
Lunch at the castle turned out to be a hasty meal because the Carpenters, with many apologies, were hurrying into Edinburgh to meet a relative. Honey set off again. Although George Brightside, the keeper, had broken with tradition and, at Jeremy’s invitation, had been shooting with the Guns on the Saturday afternoon, she had barely had a dozen words with him. She called at his home only to be told by his wife that he would undoubtedly be with ‘those dratted birds’. She drove the short distance between the village and the castle yet again. She kept a pair of miniature Zeiss binoculars in the glove compartment and a scan through these produced no sign of the keeper on the grouse moor. She nursed the Range Rover over the rocks and potholes of the track, over the crest to the broken ground, a landscape of boulders, gorse and coarse grass, where she found the keeper topping up his feeders and water drinkers. His Labrador, as worn with years as himself, watched his comings and goings with placid eyes. The pheasants, which a week earlier would have clustered around his feet, had now learned that life was real and earnest and there was a price to be paid. They had withdrawn to the fringe of the bushes, still waiting expectantly but ready to explode into noisy flight if startled.
On the shoot he had given her the impression of being a benign old soul, but that may have been the result of being free at last to take a pace back and join in the harvest for which all the effort had been made. Expectation of substantial tips may have helped. While at work, he showed a more irascible side of his nature until he realised that Honey, who had dressed in a well-cut denim jacket and skirt sturdy enough to withstand a day in the country, was quite prepared to help carry bags of wheat or buckets of water. She saw him glance at her waistline, wondering whether her pregnancy was advanced to the point where carrying would endanger the foetus. Evidently he decided that it was not, or else that it was unimportant. The pleasure of stretching her muscles doing work on a fine day in beautiful country took her back to earlier days in Perthshire, but she went carefully all the same, assessing the effect of each load on her musculature before accepting it. She was carrying in her womb the future president of the world and she had no intention of endangering him – or her.
George Brightside waited until the work was done before seating himself on a straw bale and saying, ‘Well, what’s it about?’
Honey had no wish to carry away with her any more straw and dust than was inescapable. She brushed herself down, fetched her shooting stick from the Range Rover and seated herself facing the old man. It was comfortable in the sunshine. There was an illusion of intimacy. ‘The two spaniels,’ she said.
‘Ah,’ he said, nodding. ‘I thought it would be that. Summun said you’re a Bobby. But they’ve a’ready been at me about that, over and over.’
‘So what did you tell them?’
‘Good pair of dogs. One was the better hunter and the other the better retriever, but either could do both jobs. What else do you want to know? I saw the owners put both dogs into the back of the Land Rover and their pheasants on the back seat. Then they drove off. That’s the last I saw of any of them.’
‘Did anybody follow them away?’
He surprised her with a prompt answer. ‘Miss Phillipson left next, but that was ten minutes after and she went in the opposite direction.’
‘Did you notice anyone who was particularly taken with the dogs?’
He frowned and his nostrils flared. ‘Mr Colebrook was giving them titbits, but he did that for several dogs. I checked him for that. People don’t like their dogs made fat and the mistress didn’t put up snacks for them to be given to the dogs. He said he’d only given them peppermints, but I told him that a dog isn’t a guard dog if it thinks strangers bring food, see what I mean?’
Honey saw exactly what he meant. In her experience, a dog expecting a biscuit could make a damned nuisance of itself. One of her phobias was being jumped up against and mauled by the muddy paws of somebody else’s dog. ‘What about Mr Colebrook?’ she said.
‘Never arrived home, did he? Ian was asking round about that. He took his two birds and drove off, polite as you like. Didn’t have a dog but I’ll say this for him, he tipped well. And he knew what he’d hit or missed. He picked up his own birds when they was close by and when they fell further off he knew exactly where they were.’
‘Good for him!’ she said. A few more questions failed to produce anything new about Mr Colebrook or the spaniels. ‘Now tell me about Pat Kerr,’ she said.
The keeper looked at her in surprise. ‘Him? He was just a beater.’
She looked sharply at the old man. Was this an example of the snobbery of Guns versus beaters that, though it was unusual in the Borders, sometimes raised its head in the more upmarket shoots? ‘How do you mean?’
‘I didn’t see much of him on shoot day. I was busy in the morning and among the Guns in the afternoon.’
‘But you brought him, so I’m told.’
George Brightside’s brow acquired some additional wrinkles. ‘I wouldn’t say brought, exactly. See, he lives just outside the village. He spoke to me outside the pub one day. He said he was new around here and didn’t have any contacts and could I do with his help now and again? I saw his problem. You’ve to live a long time around here before you’re a local – a hundred years at least. Well, there’s times I can do with casual help and I will say that he’s a good worker and knows how things are done. But I wouldn’t say that I ever got to know him. He’s not a man that lets you get to know him easily, not unless you’ve got . . .’ He moved his hands, miming a big bosom. ‘Then, before the shoot, he asked could I use another beater? I was going to need all the beaters I could get and I hadn’t seen or heard anything against the man. A beater gets to know the ground well, sometimes too well, but in a close little area like this I’d damn soon hear if he started poaching. So I said to join up with the other beaters outside the pub and I warned Mr Carpenter to expect him.’
‘And he’s proved as harmless and reliable as you hoped?’
Brightside’s wrinkles suddenly twitched and reappeared at right-angles. He seemed amused. ‘He hasn’t done me any harm.’
Honey was feeling her way but she thought that she could sense how the land lay. If they had been sitting any closer she would have poked the other in the ribs. ‘But he’s a bad boy. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘And he’s not alone.’ He glanced around as if to see that no eavesdroppers were lurking among the gorse. ‘I may as well be the one to tell you this. See, one way or another I meet up with most of the folk around here and I hear most of the gossip. And I can put it together. I know where you were this morning, for instance. Your car was seen.’
She was quite used to the speed with which news travels among country folk. ‘So?’
‘Johnny Cruikshank. Nice looking lad, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I might. But he’s another bad boy. Is that what you’re saying?’
The old keeper was smirking. ‘You’ll have heard of the eternal triangle? Well, how about the eternal square?’
‘You’d better explain.’
George Brightside was in no hurry to start working again. ‘I’ll tell you,’ he said. ‘When those two women moved into Tarn Croft, years ago now, everybody thought they was a couple of those – what d’you call ’em? – lesbians. You know what I mean?’
Honey laughed. ‘You’re asking a woman police officer if she’s heard of lesbians?’
> He chuckled. ‘Then, about eighteen months or two years back, that Cruikshank moved in with the pair of them. That caused a stir, I don’t mind telling you. Some still thought they was lesbians, but it was the others that had the right of it, because they’re not too fussy about curtains, being at the back of beyond so to speak, and the postie saw more than he was meant to and he was definite. Cruikshank was keeping them both warm, alternate nights it looked like. Still is sometimes, I’m told. But then Pat Kerr arrived. What do you think happened?’
‘Two couples?’
‘You’d think so, but not a bit of it. Seems Cruikshank still pleasures the both of them. But the way it worked out Miss Kendal fell for Pat Kerr. He doesn’t mind giving her a tumble now and again but he’s set his sights on Miss Phillipson; and she still can’t see past John Cruikshank while Johnny’s all for Miss Kendal. How do you like that?’ He chuckled.
‘Not a lot,’ Honey said. ‘It can make a lot of bad blood. Jeremy would have had to keep the two men apart in the beating line, I suppose.’
‘Bless you, no.’ Brightside was evidently relishing what he was relating. ‘The two men still get on fine. They meet for a drink several times a week. They don’t talk openly about the goings-on. They keep the talk between themselves but when they’ve had a drink or two their voices get louder and, well, others can overhear. It’s just a big game to them.’
She did not bother to exclaim at the callous attitude of the average predatory male. Though herself secure, she was well aware that sex may be a game, a battle of wits, to a man. In her bachelor days she had played the same game. ‘It’s a game that’s likely to end in tears,’ she said dryly.
‘That could happen. Yes, it surely could. Anyway, I thought you should know. And now I must get around my traps.’ Satisfied that he had stirred up a little trouble he pottered off, the picture of elderly benevolence.
*
Armed with detailed directions from the keeper, she set off to find Pat Kerr. She found his cottage half a mile south of the village. It was one of a pair and his neighbour, a stout lady of Jamaican extraction, said that he drove a van for a living but was usually home ‘about now’. This presumably was the lady who had stated that no dog other than Pat Kerr’s own had been near the place. It was beyond Honey’s power of imagination to visualise the Jamaican lady lying her head off for love of Pat Kerr. She walked Pippa once around the immaculate garden without observing any reaction except at the pigsty tucked neatly away in a corner. Then she waited, soothed by Rafael Puyana playing baroque pieces on the harpsichord via a CD in the Range Rover.
Ian Argyll, driving by in a large, new-looking van, spotted her. She gave him a wave. He pulled up and got out. She killed the music and invited him in beside her. He reported on a total lack of progress in the matter of the dogs.
‘Keep listening,’ Honey said. ‘But I wanted to ask you about something else. It’s probably nothing to do with anything much but I was set wondering. You know where I was this morning?’
‘Tarn Croft?’
She smiled. ‘Everybody knows everything around here, but you know even more than most. Tell me, what’s the situation up there? Somebody suggested that Miss Phillipson was sweet on John Cruikshank but that he fancied Miss Kendal who couldn’t see him for Pat Kerr.’
The joiner hesitated but the gossip was too good to pass by. ‘You’d think that that was the way of it,’ he said slowly, ‘but it’s a dashed sight more complicated than that. You’ll see either of the men with either of the women, and not just out for the shopping. Not unless they dress up all fancy to go into town for the supermarket. Miss Kendal in particular. She’s as often out with the one as the other, but last time I saw her dolled up she was with Cruikshank. Gave me a real surprise, she did.’
‘Being with John Cruikshank you mean?’
Her shook his head impatiently. ‘I mean I thought Johnny’d got himself a new girl. She looked five years younger and a de’il of a lot prettier. I’ve no eye for a woman’s clothes, but there’s many a model would be glad to have that figure of hers. Well, her figure’s much the same most days, it’s her face and hair that changes. That evening, it was her face that had me baffled. I had to look and look to be sure that it was the same woman. Clever! Well, I may be a joiner to trade but I can get the whole job done. I’ve worked with painters a lot, clever fellows some of them, and I’ve learned about counter-shading and the like of that. I had a lad came to do one job for me and showed me how he could change the shape of a room by clever use of tones. Well, I got a damn good look at her across the bar and her face was still there under the shading. But she’d used her makeup so damn cleverly that you could have put her alongside one of those film stars and she’d still have looked good.’ He turned in his seat and studied Honey critically. ‘You’ve no need for that sort of trickery,’ he said.
‘Well, thank you,’ she said.
‘A pleasure,’ he said. She thought that he was going to go further. The way gossip travelled out in the country, she would not have been surprised if he knew of Cruikshank’s one-liner about her legs. But he only nodded and got out of the car.
Kerr made his appearance a few minutes later. He drove what turned out to be a baker’s van around the outlying farms and crofts. He had finished his round but he made her wait while he cashed up, cleaned out the van and fed a few leftover rolls to a brace of large pigs in the sty. The garden contained a small paved area with a teak seat where he invited her to settle. There was even a solidly built table to take her notebook. The pigs must have been very well kept because their smell was barely discernible, so she accepted the suggestion that their interview be alfresco. The lady neighbour was indoors with all her windows closed.
When he joined her on the garden seat his dog, the spaniel-collie cross, settled at his feet. The dog was restless, scenting that Pippa had been over his territory. Honey had not noticed anything on shoot day but now she realised that Kerr had more than his fair share of sex appeal. His face had rough good looks and he seemed to be exuding testosterone as other men might distribute BO. In days gone by, Honey might well have fallen for his approaches. Even now, she felt a sudden desire to have Sandy home again. She was in no doubt that he was equally aware of her.
Kerr said, ‘I suppose it’s about Mr Colebrook. The mannie as went missing?’ His voice was almost accentless.
She decided that she would dictate the pace of the interview and she would come to Mr Colebrook in her own good time. ‘How long have you lived here?’ she asked.
He looked surprised but not put out. ‘About a year,’ he said. ‘Perhaps a bit over.’
‘And what brought you here?’
There was a flicker of annoyance across his face. She thought for a moment that he was going to challenge her right to interrogate him. Then he relaxed. ‘I was born not far from here. I grew up in the country. But there seemed to be no way for an ambitious young lad without capital to get on. I took to the building trade, worked in London through the boom years, as a brickie. Those were the good years. “We pay so much a thousand and you can work as many hours as you like.” A man prepared to work his arse off could save some money in those days. I had a girl then, but she died.’ He paused and then hurried on. ‘In the end, I got fed up of city life. I’d made some money and it was time to let up, take it easier and enjoy life, so I had a friend send me the local rag. I was looking for somewhere like this, within my means.’
‘And are you enjoying life?’ she asked.
He hid a faint smile. Honey was not supposed to know about his amorous arrangements. ‘It’s worked out fine,’ he said. ‘I’m a vanman on weekdays, which gets me out and about and meeting people. Evenings or weekends I help Dod Brightside if he needs it or I do odd jobs. I trained as a brickie but I can do most jobs around a building site. I don’t break my back laying bricks at so much a thousand any more, except for Ian Argyll if he needs help, and I don’t owe any man a damn thing. Is that what you wanted to know?’
&nbs
p; ‘Some of it. Why did you ask to be taken on as a beater? Not for the money, surely?’
He looked at her sideways. ‘What would you know of a beater’s pay?’
She recognised a touch of left-wing inverted snobbery. ‘Twenty quid if you’re lucky. Or ten and a brace of birds. I’ve gone beating oftener than you have, I bet.’ She did not mention that most of her beating had been on her father’s estate.
He was suitably abashed. ‘Well, I didn’t know that, did I? No, it wasn’t for the money. But the beating line’s one place where the men gather who know most of what’s going on in the countryside. Who’s got what and who wants what, you follow me? And going round in the van, I have my ear to the ground. I can sniff out a deal. I already told old George I could get him wheat cheaper than he’s been paying for it.’
So he was a wheeler-dealer. That brought to her mind several questions that she could use to bring him to heel if he needed it.
‘What did you think of the pair of spaniels?’ she asked.
‘Good pair of dogs.’
‘What value would you put on them?’
‘Depends who was selling them, the owner or a thief.’
‘Say the owner.’
‘Spayed? Microchipped?’ He suggested a price that she knew to be not far wide of the mark.
‘So who do you think might have taken them?’
He raised his hands in a negative gesture. ‘Not worth anybody’s while to do it for money. Anyone could guess that they’d be microchipped and probably tattooed as well. Too much risk altogether. My guess would be that somebody fell for them hard.’ Unconsciously, his hand fell to toy with his dog’s ear. ‘Dogs are easier to love than people.’
She could have given him an argument but it would have been based on a single exception. Anyway, there was a lot in what he said. ‘Now tell me about Mr Colebrook.’
Cold Relations Page 9