The Blow Out

by Bill Rogers

  ‘Pass me that pail,’ she said, pointing to a galvanised bucket upended beside the gate.

  Carly picked it up and handed it to her. Jo stood on it and rubbed the window again.

  Immediately below her was a Belfast sink and a draining board piled high with dirty pots. But what drew her attention was the basket between the sink and the table and the little puppy that stared back at her with sad innocent eyes.

  ‘There’s your child,’ she said, stepping off the bucket.

  Carly took her place. ‘Aaah,’ she crooned. ‘She’s gorgeous. So cute.’

  ‘How do you know it’s a she?’ said Jo.

  Carly stepped down. ‘Because she’s gorgeous.’

  Jo turned and took in the whole of the yard. It was roughly an eighth of an acre and backed onto a small wood. The section closest to the house held a large shed and acted as a free run for the turkeys and half a dozen ducks. The next section consisted of a mixture of raised beds and open plots, some of which were bare, but most of which contained herbs and vegetables in various stages of development. The final section housed a greenhouse, a large hutch, and a covered chicken run. She estimated there were close to two dozen hens and two roosters.

  ‘Impressive,’ she said. ‘Looks like he cares more about this than he does the house.’

  ‘Grandad would have loved this,’ Carly declared. ‘Only he’d have had some goats as well.’

  The turkeys had regrouped and were looking in their direction.

  ‘It’s time we got out of here, I think,’ said Jo, heading smartly for the gate.

  ‘He must be around somewhere,’ said Carly, closing the gates and following her down the path.

  ‘The man said if he wasn’t here he’d probably be on the gallops,’ said Jo. ‘Presumably we just carry on down the lane and we’ll come to them.’

  They decided to go on foot. After more than three hours in the car it was a relief to stretch their limbs and enjoy the fresh country air. After less than a hundred yards they rounded a corner and came upon a large turning circle at the bottom of a grassy hill down the centre of which ran a broad sandy track enclosed by curved plastic-covered railings on either side. From somewhere beyond the hill came the distinctive sound of a tractor.

  ‘That’s probably him,’ said Carly. She strode towards the sandy track and tested it with her foot. ‘Come and look at this, Ma’am,’ she said. ‘It’s like nothing you’ve ever walked on before.’

  Jo went to join her. With each step she took, her foot sunk in a few inches and then bounced back a little.

  ‘It’s dead dry,’ Carly observed.

  ‘That’s because most of the rain falls on us over in the west. By the time it’s crossed the Pennines there’s beggar all left.’

  The sound of the engine rose in pitch and volume. They turned and looked up the track. A large blue tractor appeared on the brow of the hill and came towards them. The driver poked his head out of the cabin and waved his arm furiously.

  They could barely hear him above the sound of the engine.

  ‘Get the hell out of there!’ he yelled. ‘Go on, get out of the road!’

  ‘I get the impression,’ said Jo, ‘that he’s not very happy.’

  ‘I don’t see what the problem is,’ said Carly. ‘He’s almost a hundred yards away and he’s doing what, two miles an hour?’

  They retreated to the sandy turning circle and watched as the tractor approached, dragging a harrow that left behind a perfectly smooth and level surface.

  ‘Hasn’t exactly got us off to a good start though, has it?’ said Jo. ‘I reckon we’ll have some ruffled feathers to smooth.’

  The driver raised the harrow, took the slipway off the gallop, brought the tractor to a halt and killed the engine.

  Carly lowered her voice. ‘Good job he’s not one of those turkeys then.’

  Jo bit her lip and waited as the driver climbed down from the cabin. He turned to face them. Despite the flat cap, the weathered face and unkempt hair, the family resemblance to his son was obvious.

  ‘What the bloody hell did you think you were doing?’ he said. ‘Silly buggers. Could have got yourselves killed.’

  Right on cue, a trio of horses crested the hill at speed and galloped, nose to tail, down the track towards them. Black-visored riders, out of their saddles, backs parallel to the horses’ spines, stared fixedly ahead. It was a majestic, mesmerising sight. Two bays and a grey, their flanks slick with the sheen of sweat, emitted rhythmic puffs of steam from their nostrils. With the muffled drumbeat of twelve hooves pounding the sand, they swept around the bend and away.

  The man shook his fist at the riders as they passed by. ‘See what I mean?’ he growled. ‘If you’d started walking up the gallop, they could have been upon you before you had a chance to get out of the way. Not that they should have been coming down at all. It’s supposed to be one way, and that’s up,’ he grumbled. ‘Worse still is the damage you could have done to man and beast if they suddenly had to slow down. There’d be no avoiding you.’ He pointed to the rails. ‘There’s nowhere else for them to go.’

  ‘We see that now,’ said Jo. ‘We’re very sorry.’

  ‘I’ve had to sit there,’ he said, ‘with a horse’s head in my lap, trying to comfort her while we waited for the vet to come and put her out of her misery. All because she stumbled coming down there and broke her leg.’ His voice was softer now and the anger had been replaced by the remembered emotion of the event.

  ‘We’re truly sorry, Mr Clements,’ said Jo. Leaving it up to him to decide if she was referring to the present or the past.

  His head jerked up and his eyes narrowed as he stared at her. When he spoke, his tone was heavy with suspicion. ‘Who are you?’ he said. ‘And how the hell do you know who I am?’

  Chapter 56

  ‘You’d best sit down,’ he said, pulling out a chair for himself. ‘I suppose you want a drink?’

  Jo looked at the pile of dirty pots and sink full of greasy water.

  ‘It’s alright,’ he said. ‘I’ve got some clean mugs on the dresser. You’ve come all the way from Manchester, you’ll need something.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Whatever you’ve got will be fine.’

  ‘Yorkshire tea it is then,’ he said. ‘What about your mate?’

  Jo could tell from Carly’s expression that she was thinking about what she had said about accepting drinks from suspected poisoners. In this instance, however, they would be able to watch his every move. Jo gave her a reassuring smile.

  ‘Tea would be great,’ said Carly.

  He took a sturdy kettle from the range, filled it with water from the faucet, and then plugged it into a socket beside the sink. ‘I rarely fire the range up before the end of November at the earliest,’ he explained. He took a caddy from one of the shelves on the dresser and plonked it on the table together with three mugs and a china teapot from one of the cupboards. He put three teabags in the pot and then sat down while the kettle boiled.

  The puppy was sitting at Carly’s feet staring up at her with saucer eyes and an air of anticipation.

  ‘Come away, Sandy!’ he said. ‘Leave the lady alone.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ said Carly, bending down to pet the dog. ‘She’s adorable. What breed is she?’

  ‘A Norfolk terrier,’ he told her. ‘I got her to help me catch the vermin and tell me when the foxes are sniffing round the chickens. She seems to have taken a fancy to you. You’d better watch out though. She’ll ladder your pantyhose and start nibbling your shoes if you give her half a chance.’

  Clements pointed to a basket in the corner of the kitchen. The puppy turned reluctantly away from Carly, climbed into the basket, and curled up, head on paws, his mournful gaze following his master’s every move.

  Jo had been using the time to observe Clements closely. Facially, he appeared a good ten years older than his chronological age and he had a hangdog look about him. His left eyebrow drooped such that his eye looked perma
nently half closed. He also had a slight tic that caused his nose to twitch ever so slightly every thirty seconds or so. But out there on the gallops and back here too, he moved with a degree of ease more appropriate to his actual age, fifty-one. Despite being determined to remain objective she couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for him. She could see what that man back at the big house had meant about them going gently with him.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘you haven’t told me what it is you want.’

  ‘I’m sorry to be dragging this up, Mr Clements,’ she said. ‘But it’s to do with the former Manchester Coroner. Miss Heather Rand.’

  He put his elbows on the table and bowed his head in his hands. His shoulders began to shake and Jo had the impression that he was sobbing. She looked at Carly, who raised her eyebrows and shrugged. Neither of them moved or spoke. The kettle began to spit and then emitted a piercing whistle.

  Head still bowed, he stood up, causing his chair to fall backwards and land with a clatter on the tiles. He stooped to right it, then busied himself switching off the kettle and filling the teapot. He stood staring out of the window silently while he waited for the tea to brew. The puppy crawled out of her basket and padded towards him. Several minutes passed. The silence became oppressive and Jo became aware of the ticking of a clock somewhere in the house. Finally, he wiped his face with the back of his sleeve, gave the pot a gentle swirl, and then turned to face them.

  There were blotches of red across the whites of his eyes, and the skin had puffed up beneath them. Jo sensed that he might burst into tears again at the slightest provocation.

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ he said, as he filled each of the mugs in turn. ‘I take mine black. I suppose you want milk?’

  ‘Please,’ they said in unison.

  Even when the milk had been added it was still a deep, dark chocolate colour. He sat down, blew across the surface, took a sip, and set down the mug.

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ he said for a second time. ‘I wasn’t ready for it. Thought I was, but I wasn’t.’

  He lapsed into silence and, as though by some kind of unspoken agreement, neither Jo nor Carly attempted to prompt him. He took a longer sip and savoured the tea before swallowing.

  ‘Once you said you were police I guessed why you’d come. That it was about her. Not that I knew why. Just that . . . well . . . why else would you come all this way to see me?’

  Jo took it to be a rhetorical question. She waited.

  ‘But that wasn’t why I was upset, was it?’ he said. He picked up his mug, took a deeper draught and cradled the mug in his hands. He shook it gently with tiny circular movements and stared into the whirlpool he had created.

  ‘You can only bang your head against a brick wall for so long,’ he said, ‘before all that matters is the headache. That’s why I came here. To get away from everything that reminded me of why I was angry. Of the real pain I was trying to avoid.’ He put the mug down and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘When I found Ellie lying across the bed like that my life turned upside down. I couldn’t sleep, because when I did I had these vivid horrible dreams. I was angry all the time. On edge. I didn’t lose my appetite like my wife did. I had this terrible need to gorge myself. I thought if I didn’t get to the bottom of why she died I’d go mad.’

  He stared straight at Jo, willing her to understand.

  ‘There were a hundred and thirty-nine deaths from cocaine alone that year. The death rate’s going up year on year. They told me it was down to an increase in the purity of cocaine flooding the market. So even people who were used to taking it may not realise that the same dose could be fatal. My Ellie, experimenting with it for the first time, how was she supposed to know? She never stood a chance. And what do the dealers care? I tracked one down. He laughed in my face.’

  He spat the words out. ‘Said he was sorry for my loss. “I’m just a businessman,” he said. “Just like any other supplier. I respond to demand. They ring me up, not the other way round. Buyer beware,” he said. “It’s up to them to make sure they take the right dose. Use it responsibly. It’s not drug use that kills, it’s drug misuse. Same with people who eat or drink themselves to death. It’s not the food or the alcohol that’s to blame, or the shops that sell it.” ’

  ‘You tracked down a drug dealer?’ said Jo. ‘Do you remember his name?’

  ‘I never knew his name. I was always asking around. Trying to find out who might have supplied my Ellie. He was just a person someone else I’d come across told me about. A dead end, as it turned out.’

  ‘Where was this?’

  ‘In the city centre. Near the Dale Street parking lot. I gave up not long after that. It was obvious I was wasting my time. Besides, even in the state I was in I knew it was stupid. Dangerous.’

  He sighed, put the mug down and looked at Jo. ‘Being here. This place. It’s been like a medicine to me. Another world where none of that ever existed. Where I can live every day in the present. Not worry about the future. Above all, bury the past. You coming here, it’s dug it all up again. That’s what upset me.’

  The last sentence was delivered as a challenge. As though he was daring her to contradict him.

  ‘I can see that,’ she said. ‘Which is why I said we were sorry to be dragging it all up again. But when I explain, I’m sure that you’ll understand we had no option.’

  The dog was now jumping up, trying to attract Carly’s attention as she tried to make notes.

  ‘Sandy! Get down!’ he shouted. The puppy sank to the floor. He pointed to the basket. ‘Get in!’ he said. The puppy slunk on her belly across the floor, ears flat to her head. She climbed into the basket and curled up, with her head between her front paws, observing them with sad black eyes.

  Clements turned his attention back to Jo. ‘Go on then,’ he said. ‘Explain.’

  ‘Someone shot Miss Rand while she was walking with her dog in Manchester.’

  If he was surprised, it didn’t show. ‘And you want to know if it was me?’

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘No. I didn’t shoot her. Though I’d be lying if I said I was sorry that someone else did. But I’m not glad either. Like I told you, I’m beyond all that. I finally realised that nothing is going to bring my Ellie back.’

  ‘You didn’t ask how she is.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘She’ll live.’

  He nodded and finished the tea in his mug.

  ‘Do you possess a gun, Mr Clements?’ Jo asked.

  His expression told her he considered it a stupid question. ‘Everyone round here has one. I’ve got two. A shotgun and a .22. I told you, I’m surrounded by foxes and vermin. When it comes down to it, nothing beats a gun.’

  ‘Could we see them, please?’ she said. ‘And your shotgun licence and your firearms certificate?’

  He returned, carrying over the crook of his left arm a side-by-side double-barrelled shotgun, with the barrels safely broken. In his right hand he held a matt-black rifle that Jo was pretty sure was a .22 LR rimfire. He laid the rifle down on the table and then handed her the shotgun, stock first so she could see it was empty. Then he took the licences from his back pocket and placed them on the table.

  He watched her examine the shotgun and then lay it aside and pick up the rifle.

  ‘This is a .22 CZ 455 rimfire,’ she said for Carly’s sake. ‘With a 5-shot detachable magazine.’

  ‘You know your guns then?’ he said with begrudging admiration.

  She examined the end of the barrel where it had been screw-turned. ‘Do you use a sound moderator?’ she asked.

  ‘Only at night,’ he replied.

  ‘What do you use these guns for?’

  ‘I get to do some beating for the driven shoots around here. Mainly pheasants and partridge,’ he said. ‘In return, in season they let me shoot a couple of brace a month for myself. I also join rough shoots for hare and rabbits. And when the larder’s getting low I go out after them on my own, and for those damn wood
pigeons. But most important of all are the foxes. If they get in among the livestock I have to start all over again.’

  Jo hefted the rifle.

  ‘Have you ever used air rifle pellets in this?’ she asked.

  ‘What kind of a daft question is that?’ he said. ‘What would be the point, apart from the risk of damaging a perfectly good rifle?’

  ‘But it is possible?’

  He frowned. ‘It’s possible. I’ve heard of people using nail gun powder blanks with hollow-point pellets. But those are going to make a mess of anything you might be thinking of eating. Like I said, what would be the point, apart from proving you can do it?’

  ‘Because it’s cheaper than using bespoke .22 ammunition?’

  He sneered. ‘Not in the long run. Not if you bugger up the rifle.’

  Jo put the rifle down and examined the shotgun certificate and the firearms licence. They had been issued three years previously, within months of each other. Both had another two years to run.

  ‘And you don’t possess an air rifle?’

  ‘No. And I never have.’

  Jo looked around the room for evidence of a calendar. The kitchen was where most people kept them unless they had a study or used one on their phone.

  ‘Do you use a calendar?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. ‘No need. I’m here seven days a week. Never go anywhere unless it’s part of a routine. Like weekly shopping.’

  ‘What about doctor’s appointments? Dentists? That sort of thing?’

  ‘I note them down, up here.’ He tapped the side of his head.

  ‘So if my colleague were to give you a few dates could you tell me where you were?’

  ‘Try me.’