‘I’m not there yet, Ian. I’ve got to get the job first. Besides, it’s Cardiff – not the countryside.’ She straightened and gave him a sad smile. ‘Kay told you, then?’
‘Yes.’ He gave his foot one last shove and the boot slid on. ‘Thank bloody goodness. I’m sure these shrank when I hosed them off the other morning.’
‘Got them on the right feet?’
He grinned, stuck up two fingers at her, and then stood and eyed up the fields beyond the yard where they’d parked, inhaling the fresh air.
Rows and rows of gnarly fruit trees stretched as far as he could see.
Carys followed his gaze. ‘It’s different along here, compared to Maitland’s farm, isn’t it? Flatter.’
‘Doesn’t feel quite so desolate this time of year, either.’ He stood with his hands on his waistband and turned to survey the rambling property. ‘I don’t know how people do this for a living. It’s bloody hard work, especially now they can’t guarantee any harvesting help from abroad.’
‘I heard it was pretty bad here last year. A lot of the fruit pickers didn’t bother coming over.’ Carys stepped around a deep puddle that stretched between a flat-bed trailer and a battered four-wheel drive vehicle. ‘Who are we meeting?’
‘Him,’ said Barnes, and raised his hand as a man appeared on the doorstep to the farmhouse and ambled towards him. ‘Hugh Ditchens?’
‘That’s me.’ The fifty-something farmer shook hands with Barnes, then Carys and gestured to a low-slung brick building that hugged one side of the yard. ‘Come on over to the office. It won’t matter if we get mud on the floor, and it’s warm. I switched the heating on in there an hour ago. You all right for drinks?’
‘We’re fine, thanks. Are you busy here at the moment?’
‘In a bit of a lull,’ said Ditchens, as he strode towards his office and led them inside. ‘Don’t worry about leaving your boots at the door – nobody else does.’
His voice was cheerful, matter-of-fact.
As Barnes cast his eyes around the walls and took in the yearly planners and amateur watercolour paintings that jostled for space alongside three faded aviation prints, each depicting a Second World War aircraft in flight, and children’s drawings tacked beside those, he sensed that Ditchens wasn’t a man led easily to stress.
‘This about the bloke that was found in Dennis’s field?’ said Ditchens, gesturing to an overstuffed armchair and a rickety camping chair. ‘Sorry about the furniture. I’m planning on getting some newer bits and pieces nearer the summer.’
Barnes eyed the camping chair with suspicion and ignored the sly glance Cary shot him as she sank into the armchair and crossed her legs. He eased onto it, half expecting to land on the floor, and then turned his attention to the farmer.
‘It is. Just a few routine questions to help us understand how he might have got there in the first place. Have you noticed any unusual activities over the past couple of weeks?’
‘Can’t say I have. Obviously with the tourist season a few months off yet it’s not as busy around here – that can be a pain with fly-tippers, particularly in the field that borders the cherry orchard. It’s the nearest to the road, you see. Bastards pull up and throw all their rubbish over the fence and then drive off.’
‘We’re particularly interested in anything you might have seen or heard at night,’ said Barnes. ‘Vehicles, things like that.’
Ditchens tugged at his earlobe. ‘To be honest, I’m usually asleep by ten-thirty most nights so I don’t hear much.’
‘Do you own a light aircraft, Mr Ditchens?’ said Carys.
He chuckled as he saw her look over his shoulder at the aviation prints. ‘No – can’t afford one.’
‘Those paintings look old.’
‘They were my father’s. He always had a soft spot for World War Two fighter planes, the Spitfire in particular.’
‘Are you aware of any private airfields in the area?’ said Barnes. ‘For crop spraying and the like?’
‘I’m not, and I can’t imagine anyone around here needing to use one – we just don’t have the land mass like some of the bigger cereal farms do.’
‘Where do your workforce come from? Are they local?’
‘Mostly from the village, yes. It gets busier at harvest time, of course, so we bring on casual labour to assist even though most of the fruit picking is done by machine these days.’ He smiled indulgently. ‘There are still some jobs people are better at.’
‘Any travellers turn up wanting some work?’
‘Occasionally.’ Ditchens shifted in his seat. ‘Mind you, that’s a Kentish tradition, isn’t it? Everyone used to come down from London in the old days to help with the fruit and hop harvests. Make a holiday of it.’
‘And how do you pay them?’
‘Cash.’ The farmer’s neck reddened. ‘But I clear all that with my accountant when I do my tax return.’
Barnes smiled. ‘Noted, Mr Ditchens. Very commendable of you. Have you had any issues with people sleeping rough on or near your land?’
‘No, thank goodness.’ Ditchens leaned back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. ‘I’ve heard it’s happening more and more, except the government won’t do anything about it. They’re only interested in the homeless people that they see in towns, aren’t they? I figured I’m lucky not to have to deal with that sort of thing around here.’
Barnes rose from the chair, the legs wobbling as he straightened. ‘I think that’s all the questions we have at the present time, Mr Ditchens. Thanks for your help.’
‘Not a problem, detective. I hope you find whoever killed that man. Whoever he was, he didn’t deserve to have his life ended like that. It’s just not right.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
‘This is the place. Peverell Pet Food Supplies,’ said Laura, turning left off the B-road and following a cracked concrete driveway that weaved between thick pine trees.
Gavin flicked through the pages he’d printed out from an Internet search as she braked to a standstill. ‘Says they’ve been here for ten years, providing quality meat to the cat and dog food industry. Rabbits.’
‘I couldn’t do that job.’
‘Me neither.’ He folded the print-outs and dropped them into the footwell. ‘I suppose someone has to, though. Fido won’t get his grain-free preservative-free kibble otherwise, will he?’
‘My sister has a cat. Won’t eat anything except one particular brand of food. The expensive sort that comes in one of those sachets, of course.’
‘Not an animal lover, then?’
‘I like animals – just not that one. Vicious bastard of a fur ball. I only offered to babysit it once. Never again, not unless they give me gauntlets to wear.’
She braked next to a battered grey estate car with mud splashed up its wheel arches.
Dread shivered across Gavin’s shoulders as he followed Laura between a series of deep potholes and ran his gaze over the low slung buildings that hugged the fence line beyond the yard.
Muffled noises came from within, a thrum of movement that was pierced with a single shriek – and then, silence.
‘We should’ve insisted on the orchard place,’ Laura muttered.
Gavin didn’t respond, but turned his attention to the bungalow that had been built to one side, its position such that the windows faced away from the outbuildings and provided a view of a well-established vegetable garden and freshly dug flower borders.
A terracotta bird bath took centre stage in the middle of a lawn in need of a mow, while a bag of potting compost and a lightweight spade had been left on the grass beside a neatly cut furrow of earth.
The vista provided a stark contrast to what surely lay within the buildings over his shoulder.
Seeing no-one outside the house, he rang the bell.
He didn’t have to wait long.
The door opened, and a woman in a blue anorak and skinny jeans appeared, her light-brown hair sweeping her shoulders.
‘Yes?’
she said, green eyes quizzical.
Gavin held up his warrant card and introduced Laura. ‘Helen Peverell? We’re conducting enquiries in the area in relation to an incident on Dennis Maitland’s property. Can we have a word?’
The woman’s brow creased a moment before her eyebrows shot upwards. ‘Is this about the dead man we heard had been found? Adrian was going to call Dennis to find out what was going on.’
‘It is. Is your husband in?’
‘He’s in the kitchen. Do you want to come through?’
‘Thank you.’
He wiped his shoes on the coir mat and followed her along a plain hallway devoid of any artwork or bric-à-brac and into an airy kitchen at the back of the bungalow.
A man rose from a table beside a large refrigerator, his newspaper opened to the horse racing pages. He held out his hand. ‘Adrian Peverell. Did I hear right? You’re the police?’
‘Yes,’ said Gavin. ‘We wanted to ask you and your wife a few questions about a man whose body was found in one of Dennis Maitland’s fields.’
Adrian gestured to a pair of sofas that took up one side of the kitchen space next to a low table. ‘Come and take a seat over here. Hot drink?’
‘No, but thanks.’
He let Laura go ahead and ran his gaze over the wax-streaked candles and books that took up most of the table’s surface, and glanced up as Helen Peverell sat next to her husband.
She smiled. ‘We spend most of our time in here, as you can probably tell. It’s often warmer than the living room in the winter. How can we help you?’
Gavin passed across the sketch of Ethan Archer. ‘Have you seen this man before?’
Helen bit her lip, and angled the sketch so her husband could see. ‘He doesn’t look familiar. No, I don’t think so. Is he the man who was found in the field?’
‘Yes. We’re trying to establish if he might have been wild camping in the area. Have you experienced any theft from your farm, or noticed any indication of a break-in in recent months?’
Adrian handed back the sketch and shook his head. ‘I haven’t, but we have CCTV cameras around the farm, and the boundaries to the yard have alarms set at night so if anyone tried to steal anything or break in, we’d know about it straight away.’
‘That’s quite an extensive security arrangement, Mr Peverell,’ said Laura. ‘Have you had trouble in the past?’
His mouth twisted. ‘Animal rights campaigners, about two years ago. People don’t like to know the truth about where their pet food comes from.’
‘You don’t sell the rabbits for human consumption?’
‘No – only pet food. There are a couple of well-established businesses in the area who sell quality game meat, including rabbit. We saw a gap in the market for cheaper meat for pet food, so we’re not in competition with them. Helen comes from a farming family, and my dad was a butcher––’
‘––But I have to say, rabbits are a lot easier to deal with than a beef herd,’ said Helen.
‘I didn’t know rabbits were battery farmed,’ said Gavin.
‘It’s common practice over in Europe. That’s where we got the idea from,’ she said. ‘Most British pet food suppliers import the rabbit meat, but we figured we could undercut the import prices and provide a cheaper alternative.’
‘Is the business doing well?’ said Laura.
‘Extremely well,’ said Adrian. ‘Bit of a relief, actually – we took out one hell of a bank loan to buy the farm.’
‘How many people do you have working here?’
‘Not many. We have a handful of part-timers come and help when we’re slaughtering the meat and getting it ready to be prepared for distribution but most of the time it’s just the two of us. We can feed and maintain the battery cages and cope with the day-to-day running of the place.’ Adrian shrugged. ‘It helps to keep the overheads down. That’s why we’ve been so successful – we don’t employ that many people.’
‘What about casual labour, backpackers, people like that?’ said Gavin.
‘We’ve had a few turn up and ask for work over the years,’ said Helen. ‘More so people down on their luck and looking for a bit of cash-in-hand work, but we’ve always turned them away. We do everything by the book here, so the part-timers go through the payroll system.’
‘We simply can’t afford for an inspection to have any excuse to close us down,’ said Adrian. ‘This is our livelihood. So, as Helen says, everything is documented and accounted for, including our workers.’
‘Do you own an aircraft?’ said Laura.
Adrian laughed. ‘No – can’t afford one for a start. And it’s not like we need one farming rabbits.’
Gavin checked his notes, and then rose from the sofa and handed a business card to Adrian. ‘Thank you both for your time today. I think that’s everything for now, but if you think of something that might help us, or you overhear someone mentioning anything that gives you cause for concern, I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a call.’
‘No problem.’ Adrian stood, tucked the card into the back pocket of his jeans and gestured to the door. ‘I’ll show you out if you like.’
As Gavin followed Laura and the rabbit farmer out of the front door, his eyes found the low buildings opposite the house.
‘Did you have any farming experience before buying this place?’ he said.
‘Helen does – like she said, her parents have a beef herd in Shropshire. I’d helped out at a few places while I was backpacking in Australia,’ said Adrian. ‘That’s where I met Helen – I’m originally from Suffolk. We saw this place on the market when we got back, and it was going cheap. Still pricey – hence the bank loan – but cheaper than it would’ve been if the bank hadn’t been about to foreclose on the previous owner’s mortgage. That building over there where we keep the rabbit cages was almost falling down, but we got that fixed in the first year. The business expanded quickly after that, so we had to build another.’ Adrian stuck his thumb over his shoulder at the second outbuilding. ‘We use that one for processing the rabbits – slaughtering, skinning and then preparing the meat for shipment out to the pet food companies. Did you want to have a look around?’
Gavin shook his head, wondering what sort of horrors he’d have to face if he went through the double doors the farmer indicated. ‘That’s okay, Mr Peverell. I think we’ve got enough to be getting on with. Thanks for your time.’
‘No problem.’
As he turned back to the car, Laura fell into step beside him and exhaled.
‘Thank God,’ she said. ‘I thought you were going to say yes. Those poor rabbits.’
‘I know, but it’s how chickens are reared over here, too.’
‘They’re not as cute.’
‘Don’t tell Kay’s other half that.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
A palpable frustration hung in the air as Kay’s team congregated for the afternoon briefing.
Grumbles and a tendency to snap at each other had replaced their enthusiasm, and she tried to recall how Sharp had chivvied them along when she was a detective sergeant reporting to him.
She took a deep breath, and tried to keep her tone light.
‘Let’s make a start, everyone. I realise this is a difficult case, but we’re making headway. We owe it to Ethan Archer to maintain our focus.’
She sensed it then; a change that rippled through the assembled officers and administration staff as they began to sit up straighter in their seats.
The click of pens popping, notebooks being turned to fresh pages reached her, and then a gradual silence settled on the room.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘By now, I hope you’ve had a chance to read through the reports from the interviews with Hugh Ditchens and the Peverells. Neither of those landowners recognised our victim, and no-one has reported any thefts or signs of wild camping on their land, either. Debbie – how did you get on with trying to locate next of kin?’
The police constable rose from her seat and raised her
voice.
‘I’ve gone through all the records, guv. His parents died thirteen years ago, and Ethan never married.’
‘Any siblings?’
‘I’m unable to find that out. Ethan was adopted by the Archers when he was three years old. They had no children of their own, and I can’t find anything to suggest he had any natural siblings.’
‘Okay, thanks.’ Kay paused to check the agenda. ‘Barnes – what’s the latest regarding the van?’
‘All house-to-house enquiries along the lane have been completed,’ said the detective sergeant. ‘No-one else can recall hearing a van that night – one or two residents at the far end of the road stated that they do hear vehicles driving along the lane late at night from time to time, but can’t specifically identify a van, or a particular date.’
‘Anything on CCTV?’
‘Nothing, I’m afraid, guv. No-one along there has any security cameras – they’re all private residences. There aren’t any businesses along that road. The nearest one is over on the main road heading towards Hildenborough. We’ve checked the footage from there, but no van shows up on the evening Peter Winton mentioned.’
‘What about the tyre tread marks?’ said Kay. ‘How are you getting on with those?’
Barnes turned to Laura and raised an eyebrow.
‘We’re still waiting to hear back from Patrick, guv,’ she said. ‘I called him a couple of hours ago, but there’s a backlog. He says it might be next week before he’s got anything for us.’
‘What about light aircraft in the area?’ said Kay. ‘Anything?’
‘All the registered aircraft and pilots in the area are accounted for,’ said Phillip Parker. ‘None of them recorded a flight that coincides with the night in question.’
Kay paced the carpet. ‘Okay, in the circumstances we’ll leave the van for the time being. In the absence of any corroborating evidence to support Winton’s claim he heard a van that night, we’re in danger of wasting time on what could have been something he dreamed up. We need to turn our focus to where Ethan Archer might’ve been staying before he was killed. Has anything come back from the local homeless charities, or the council?’
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