Hate Bale

by Stephanie Dagg

  Martha knew Etienne would turn up to do her hay for her when he’d finished his own and also any for farmers with whom he was under contract to make. He and Martha had an informal, ‘behind-the-door’ agreement, as he liked to call it. He provided the hardware and she provided the grass. She generally only needed a dozen bales or so to see her through the winter, meaning Etienne ended up with anything up to sixty bales for himself. Both parties were very happy with the deal. This year she’d have to add a new clause to it involving help with replacing a gate.

  But Martha was getting ahead of herself. She was blithely assuming the tractor would condescend to fire up today. That was never a certainty with the sixty-two-year-old machine. It would be just her luck that it refused to start today and so she’d have to call in help now. That would cause major inconvenience to her farming neighbours and leave Martha in their debt, neither of them being things she liked.

  “I need you to move the car off the drive, either onto the field or back down by the house,” she instructed Roy. “I’ll be back with the tractor.”

  “And quickly,” Carol had to add.

  Wondering what the prison sentence for accidentally causing death by dropping a hay bale on someone’s head might be, Martha stalked back down the drive. Floss had picked up the bad vibes and slunk, ears down, beside her. Martha suddenly noticed and ruffled the fur on the old dog’s head.

  “Good girl,” she said brightly, and Floss immediately cheered up. Whatever doom and gloom had been threatening had miraculously evaporated and all was right with her canine world again. She trotted jauntily beside her mistress now, head up, tail wagging. She’d be even happier soon because she loved the tractor. She trotted alongside wherever Martha went in it, a self-appointed wingman.

  Martha heaved herself up onto the tractor. It was a very basic model that had seen far better days, but, when in a co-operative mood, was worth its weight in gold. There was no roll bar or cabin, only one no-longer-operational light still clinging on at a jaunty angle at the front, no ignition key and very little original paintwork left. There were plenty of similarly old tractors in farms around here but most of those received much more TLC than her tractor did. Martha did keep meaning to paint it and spruce it up a bit, but her energy always got diverted into other more pressing things.

  “Start today,” she negotiated with the tractor as she pressed the button to trigger the ignition sequence, “and I promise I will oil all your bearings and get some anti-rust treatment onto your bodywork. Deal?”

  Evidently it was a satisfactory one as the tractor rumbled slowly, and with a lot of black smoke puffing out of the vertical exhaust pipe, into life. Cats and chickens fled in alarm away from the scene, and Flossie yelped in excitement.

  “Thanks old girl,” Martha told the tractor. “Let’s hope we’re both up to the job.”

  Martha’s tractor driving technique was unique. Each time she needed to change gear, she had to stand up from what was left of the seat to put all her weight onto the clutch to get it to engage. In this slightly precarious raised position, she then had to battle the clunky gear lever into place and quickly get her butt back on the seat before she was jerked off balance as the tractor lurched off. Raising and lowering the forks at the front and the power-take-off attachment at the back called for similar stand-up sit-down manoeuvres from her, with extra grappling as the control levers for those actions were even harder to move than the gear stick.

  She mammothed noisily up the drive, accompanied by Flossie who seemed completely oblivious to the racket the tractor made and the fumes it produced. Carol, of course, was not. Martha saw her put first her hands over her ears as she approached, and then move one to go over her wrinkled nose. Roy and the kids just waved cheerily.

  Martha raised the forks down to the right level, not very smoothly it had to be said, and with quite a lot of sub voce swearing from her and much noisier complaints from various parts of the tractor, and then crept forwards. She was aiming at just below the top metal bar of the gate with the two and three-quarter spikes on the bucket of the tractor. (That was how the tractor had come when she and Mark had bought it so she never knew the story behind the missing bit of spike.) There was thick wire netting filling the body of gate, which had been custom built by a very hands-on former resident of the farm. Martha needed to slide the spikes into the top row of the netting. Lower and she’d rip the wire when she lifted the gate, and that would be yet another repair to go on her ‘to be bodged up’ list. And she was coming in too low. Drat.

  She reversed clunkily, adjusted the height of the forks and tried again. This time they chinged against the top metal bar, the left spike leaving a small dent and the right one scratching off a large flake of green paint, revealing an undercoat of white.

  Carol had stomped off back to the house by now after more ear covering and fume flapping. She’d presumably told Roy to text her when proceedings were complete, assuming they ever were…

  “No, don’t think like that. Third time lucky,” Martha told herself.

  Sophia was stroking Flossie, both of them well out of harm’s way sitting amidst the long grass of the hay meadow to the right. Zack was keeping a watchful eye on them both. Roy was actively encouraging Martha.

  “Think you’ll do it this time!” he yelled over the loud rumblings and occasional splutters of the engine. He gave Martha a thumbs-up. She just nodded in reply, needing both hands to keep the tractor steering in a straight line.

  “Comeoncomeoncomeon,” she muttered, then grinned in triumph, “yes!”

  The first phase of Operation Gate Removal And Hate Bale Relocation was complete.

  Martha engaged the stiff but largely ineffective hand brake into position. Fortunately the slight incline of the land and drive had levelled out here. The tractor shouldn’t start rolling backwards. Then she began to jerkily raise the forks. Roy had positioned himself at the hinge end of the gate in case he could be useful there, but things went amazingly smoothly. The gate lifted off its colossal wrought-iron barrel hinges as easily as anything. Martha managed not to look surprised and instead assumed a serene expression of smugness.

  The rest of the procedure went equally impressively. Martha reversed a little way then drove onto the hay meadow on the left hand side of the drive as you went up it towards the road. She rumbled up to the thick hedge of holly, beech, field maple and elderberry that edged the top end of her land. Her plan was to lean the gate up against this until she felt brave enough and had suitable back-up to have a go at rehanging it. For a few seconds the lever in charge of raising and lowering the forks refused to budge but Martha kept waggling it until it co-operated, and no one else seemed to notice.

  So now for the bale. She drove back towards it. Now that she looked more closely, she could see that it was a bit of a mess. It was wonky and didn’t appear to have a lot of blue bailer twine going round it. It wasn’t going to be easy to move. Her first thought had been to push it over onto its side and spear it in its round bottom. However, given its precarious state it might be better to spear it in the side and carry it upright. She wouldn’t get it as far as the animals’ fields, that much was certain. And anyway, a little niggle was tugging away at the back of her mind in the wake of Wednesday’s ghastly events. There were nasty people out there. What if this gate-blocking-with-a-hate-bale was more than just a malicious prank? What if it was intended to be deadly? Someone could have laced it with poison. Martha didn’t want her livestock dying in agony. But she didn’t want any browsing wild animals to die that way either. Deer would presumably munch at anything, and so would wild boar. There were plenty of both of those around. And hares and small rodents, that would see this as a bonanza free meal. And while birds wouldn’t actually consume the hay, they’d use it to line their nests and the substance, assuming there was one and whatever it was, might harm the helpless nestlings that hatched into it.

  Martha had now convinced herself this bale was a ticking time bomb. She needed to get it into a
quiet corner somewhere and cover it up as best she could so no unsuspecting victims would fall foul of it. Then she’d have to burn it. She couldn’t leave it to rot, not if it was contaminated. Suddenly she felt like she had the weight of the bale on her own shoulders. Or was it just the weight of paranoia?

  Either way, the thing had to go somewhere for the time being. She adjusted the height of the spikes with some energetic lever wrestling and then coaxed the tractor into ramming speed and lunged for the bale. It wobbled as the spikes went in but didn’t fall. The left spike was only just in the hay bale, but the other one and three-quarter spikes had a good hold. Tentatively Martha raised the bale a foot off the ground. It sagged and drooped but stayed in one piece. She began to reverse carefully. The weight of the bale pulled the tractor’s weight forward slightly and the big rear wheels weren’t gripping as tightly to the ground as they had been. Mark had once tipped the tractor forwards when carrying a hay bale over bumpy ground. It had taken a lot of hard work to get it upright again. Martha knew she should raise the bale higher to make the tractor more stable, but she didn’t dare. The whole bale could collapse at any moment.

  She began to turn the reversing tractor and went over a rut. The machine and bale shook in synchronicity. Martha glanced at the bale, which now looked sadder than ever. Then she swung her head back to look over her shoulder as she carried on reversing. She could see the two children and Flossie, safely out of the way. Sophia suddenly began waving. Martha didn’t dare return the gesture but sent a smile their way. Zack, oddly, didn’t smile back. He had a frown on his face. Then he pointed towards the bale and started shouting. She thought she picked up Roy’s voice too. Martha couldn’t hear what either of them was saying over the noise of the engine but guessed that the bale must be disintegrating. All over the driveway too, since although the tractor was in the meadow, the forks weren’t.

  Sighing, she braked and swivelled round to face front, but rapidly wished she hadn’t. Because dangling below the misshapen lump of hay that was still somehow clinging on to being a bale, was, unmistakeably, a human arm.

  Chapter 9

  “As well as the two arms in your bale, we’ve now assembled both legs, the head and half the torso of Martial Lecerf,” Philippe was saying. “So far spread out over a five-kilometre radius from his farm.”

  Martha was sitting on the ground, hugging her knees and watching as the scene of crime officers finished going through the hay bale on her driveway. She must have been there a couple of hours now, but she just couldn’t move. Flossie patiently sat beside her. The Cuthbertsons were back at the cottage. The two children were fine. Sophia had been sure the bale was waving at her, while Zack had been inured to gruesomeness from over-exposure to shoot ‘em up video games. Poor Roy, though, had been very badly shaken. Carol, of course, was furious and held Martha entirely to blame.

  “There’s a report just come in of another dumped hay bale in someone’s gateway. My colleagues have gone off to investigate that one. I dare say that will reveal our missing portion.”

  Martha shuddered. When they were little, on special occasions she used to buy Jared and Lily those chocolate egg treats that contained a surprise. It occurred to her that these hay bales were the macabre, agricultural version of them.

  “And there’s a team at the Lecerf farm.”

  “Who on earth could do such a thing?” Martha blurted out. She knew there was no answer to that question yet, but she posed it anyway. “I mean, what sort of twisted, sick mind could come up with the idea of killing someone, cutting them up and shoving bits of them into hay bales and then distributing them to the neighbours?”

  “We’ll get whoever it is,” promised Philippe.

  “And I can’t believe that no one saw or heard anything,” Martha blazed on. “Mind you, I didn’t, and at some point during the night there was a tractor at my gate with… with that.” She gestured towards the scattered remnants of the bale and pulled a face.

  “It’s hay making time,” shrugged Philippe. “Locals are used to hearing and seeing tractors all day long and into the night. Blokes are contracted in so no one takes any notice of a new face driving around with hay bales on a waggon or on the tractor forks.”

  Martha nodded. That was too true. This killer was smart.

  “First Daniel, now this…” Martha trailed off. “It’s looking like someone doesn’t like farmers or people connected with farming, and that they especially don’t like me.” She ran a shaky hand down her face.

  “Now, now,” said Philippe. He put an arm round her. “Whilst there may be some sort of anti-agriculture connection, there’s no vendetta against you. It’s just really bad luck that you found Daniel yesterday, and are nearby to Lecerf. Cocky as he is, our killer didn’t push things too far. He dumped his bales as near to base as he could.”

  “It’s just… two bodies, well, bits of body in the second case, is a bit much.”

  “It is. It’s a bit much for us country cops too. Come on, let’s get you back indoors for a cup of tea.” He gave her a gentle squeeze before removing his arm.

  “Are your mates going to try and accuse me of this murder?” demanded Martha, wryly. “After all, I guess I could have walked round to Martial’s farm, murdered, chopped and baled him up, hopped in his tractor and dumped bales around the place, not forgetting my own gateway as a bluff, and then walked back home after returning the tractor.”

  “Somehow I doubt that,” smiled Philippe. “How many gear sticks does a modern tractor have?”

  Martha snorted. “One, like duh!”

  “Wrong,” Philippe replied smugly. “Lecerf’s is a twin stick model. Plus, although I happen to know you’re a very good knitter, I can’t for the life of me see you coping with a baling machine. Do you even know where to put the twine in it?”

  “I dare say I could work it out,” protested Martha, not liking being cast into the ‘incompetent woman around machines’ category, “given time.” Then she realised this might count against her. “Or then again, probably not,” she added quickly.

  Philippe smiled. “I also can’t see you connecting the baler to the tractor’s power take-off. That’s brutally physical work. You get Etienne to change the rear attachments for you on this thing, don’t you?”

  Martha nodded. During summer she got that kind farmer neighbour to fix the grass cutter on the back so she could keep the grass that grew in the centre of the driveway trimmed, and the verges. And then, in autumn, she’d ask him to swap that for the rotavator attachment so she could keep on top of the weeds in the large vegetable patch that practically overwhelmed the plants by the end of the season, and then break the soil up in the spring before starting next year’s battle with them.

  “You are in the clear, Martha,” Philippe confirmed.

  “Well, that’s something,” she murmured.

  Philippe stood and offered her a hand. She took it and he helped her up. They walked past the busy officers, then Martha paused, looking down at her house and the cottage, the sprawling barn and the fields with her livestock, and then beyond to neighbouring farms that spread across the land that rose from the valley. There were clusters of trees and buildings, a water tower, a stretch of woodland, and at the top of the furthest hill, a church steeple emerged above the trees around it.

  “I love this view,” she smiled.

  “It’s okay. I prefer this one,” said her companion.

  She glanced at him, frowning, wondering which way he was looking. There wasn’t much to see in the other directions, just hedgerows.

  But he was gazing at her.

  She rolled her eyes. “You old rogue!” she grinned.

  He grinned back, but there was wistful tinge to it.

  “Come on, get me home before I fall down,” she instructed briskly. “My poor old legs feel a bit weak.”

  As they walked, she mused that much as she did indeed love the view, it really might be time to relinquish it to someone else. After today’s episode, the farm felt
different, more hostile. But all thoughts of her possible future evaporated in an instant as they rounded the bend in the drive and saw Carol packing the car.

  “We’re leaving!” she explained, unnecessarily, when Martha drew within earshot. “I refuse to stay another minute in this dump.” She gestured towards the pristine cottage which looked the picture of rustic charm in the sunshine with the wisteria and vine stretching leafy, green arms across it. The flowerbeds were a riot of colour, the lawn spit-spotted with daisies and clover, making the most of the few days’ grace they got between Changeover Saturday beheadings.

  Martha ignored the insult. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Roy has had a nasty shock. I’d—”

  She was going to say that she’d have thought a quiet evening would be best for them all before their long trip home tomorrow. Heading off now was insane. But Carol didn’t give her the chance.

  “And it’s all your fault.” She glared daggers at Martha. “You’re obviously some sort of criminal, leaving a trail of dead bodies everywhere you go. No one’s safe around you. And apparently you’ve got the police in your pocket.” She whispered the last bit savagely. Philippe by now had wandered around to the other side of the car, but he obviously heard her as Martha noticed a twitch of a smile, followed by a frown.