Tainted Ground (7 page)

‘Did you know the murder victims?' Patrick asked.

The interior of the bungalow, as so often happens when the place is rented, had an unhomely feel to it, boxes stacked everywhere, some open and with the contents spilling out as though Stonelake had rummaged in them, looking for things. The beer opener? No,
no
, I berated myself.

The living room was comparatively tidy and contained some good pieces of furniture, antiques, but these had been pushed to the walls in haphazard fashion and were covered in dust. With difficulty I refrained from removing a half-drunk mug of tea, cold-looking, that had been placed on the top of a rather fine mahogany chest of drawers.

‘No,' Stonelake said in response to the question, ‘I only know that they lived in the village. How long are you lot going to be in the barn? There's a bloke coming to look over the place in a couple of days' time.'

‘I couldn't tell you,' Patrick replied. ‘And it'll take quite a while to search the whole farm.'

‘You didn't answer my question – what the hell d'you have to do that for?'

‘Mr Stonelake, three people have been butchered on your property. One item we will be searching for is the murder weapon.'

Stonelake threw himself sulkily into a chair.

‘Have any dodgy people shown an interest in buying the farm?' Patrick went on. We remained standing, mostly because the rest of the seating was occupied by clothing, newspapers and a large and smelly dog that was either asleep or moribund.

‘No, no one like that. I haven't had much interest at all. Farming's in a dreadful way. That's why I'm selling up now my mother's gone into a home. With a bit of luck I'll be able to flog off most of the land for housing but knowing my luck that would go against green-belt rules or some other crap like that.' He hurled a nearby phone book at the dog, which lunged to its feet and half fell off the sofa, sending things in all directions.

Once upon a time Patrick would have probably hefted Stonelake out of his chair and shaken him until his worn dentures rattled. Sadly, as far as this instance was concerned, he could no longer do so.

‘Bloody thing,' Stonelake muttered. ‘It's Mother's and if she didn't keep asking how it is I'd take it out and shoot it. Turned up one night, starving, and they took it in. Still, when the old lady goes a bit more ga-ga—' He broke off and eyed the animal meaningfully, and as if knowing what was being said it slunk nervously off into a corner.

Patrick brushed some of the hairs and dried mud from the seat vacated by the dog and sat down on the edge of it, staring hard at the other man. ‘Your farm has a bit of a history, hasn't it?' he said. ‘Bodies have been found there before – in the old barn that was demolished to make way for the new one. Suicides, a tramp, a suspicious death. Rather more than coincidences, in the light of what's happened, wouldn't you say?'

Stonelake shrugged dismissively, not meeting Patrick's gaze. ‘I heard about those but they were bloody years ago. Mum used to talk about it after she'd done some research in Bath library for something she wrote in the parish rag. Dad told her she musn't have enough to do at home if she was bothering with it, and I certainly wasn't interested.'

Patrick said, ‘The murder victims were hanging by their heels and had been butchered like animals. Their throats were cut and two of them had had their heads almost severed. Have you ever employed anyone who had worked in a slaughterhouse? Anyone like that who might have a grudge against you and would try to implicate you in a violent crime?'

This was more like it, I thought, the questioner giving the impression that if no useful response was forthcoming then the man he was talking to might suddenly find himself dangling upside down from the ceiling.

‘There was Shaun Brown,' Stonelake said, ‘but that was a while back now. He helped me a couple of winters ago, with the cattle. He'd worked at one time for a meat-packing plant at Warminster, killing pigs, but I had no problems with the bloke. He wasn't strange in the head or anything like that. Not knife-happy or likely to go off and kill folk. Why should he be? It's an honest living.'

‘You parted on good terms, then?'

‘Well, no, not really. I had an idea he'd helped himself to some diesel – you know the red diesel farmers use? – for his van and we had words. He went off in a paddy and I never saw him again. Heard he was back at the meat plant.'

Patrick glanced at me and I wondered if he was thinking the same, that we had probably heard only an edited version of what had happened. Had Stonelake withheld wages to pay for the alleged theft?

‘Oh, come to think about it I do know about the body that was found back in the sixties,' Stonelake went on, almost eagerly. ‘I'd left school by then and was helping the old man. He found it, a bloke who was missing from home in Bristol. He'd been a real no-gooder by all accounts and had got into dealing drugs. Done time for it. There wasn't a mark on him and I seem to remember they ended up not knowing how he'd died. It was freezing that weekend and he was a scraggy little git so perhaps the cold got him.'

‘Did you see the body?' I asked.

‘Yes, I ran in the barn when I heard Dad shout. He was lying there all stiff like one of those things in shop windows.'

‘And you?' Patrick said. ‘You have a criminal record as well?'

I had an idea he was ready in case the other vented any fury on the hapless dog but Stonelake remained where he was, staring at the window behind Patrick's head.

‘A driving ban for a year when I was a lot younger,' he finally admitted. ‘You know … young and hot-headed.'

‘Anything else?' Patrick enquired.

‘No. You lot once tried to pin thieving fence posts on me but you couldn't make it stick.'

‘I see. So you didn't once blast someone you thought might be a poacher with a shotgun.'

At this Stonelake did see red. ‘That was gossip! Hearsay! The police never became involved with that. How did you hear about it?'

‘Well, seeing as you've asked I'll tell you. It was me you took the shot at.'

‘You!' Stonelake's face assumed a rather ghastly pallor.

‘Yes, I was taking a short cut one evening through the woods down by the river. Fortunately only half a dozen pellets actually landed and I didn't get much sympathy at home as I'd been warned that both you and your father were trigger-happy.'

‘We were always having people breaking down the fences after rabbits and pheasants in those days.'

‘Oh, I didn't expect you to apologize,' Patrick said and rose to his feet. ‘Chief Inspector Carrick should be searching the farmhouse and other outbuildings right now and if he finds anything that incriminates you I assure you I'll be back.'

On the way out the dog gazed up at him and, fleetingly, Patrick's long fingers gently stroked its head.

‘I
s that true?' I asked when we were in the car.

‘Of course.'

‘Why didn't your father call the police?'

‘Because he had an idea Barney Stonelake knocked his wife around, Vera often coming to church with bruises that she explained away by saying how clumsy she was getting. I seem to remember I was given the usual anaesthetic, a tot of whisky, and sent along to the doctor's. The pellets had only just penetrated my skin and GPs did that kind of first aid in those days.'

‘It must have been when your parents first moved to the village and you were sort of between the police and the army.'

‘Yes, I was living at home for a few weeks. I suppose there was a wish on their part, being quite newly arrived, not to make too many unpleasant waves.'

‘I'm still surprised you didn't go and sort him out yourself.'

‘I do as my mum and dad tell me even now, don't I?'

I had to smile. ‘Prejudice apart, what d'you make of him?'

‘I think I have to agree with Elspeth's view – he's a nasty piece of work.'

‘He could be involved in the killings.'

‘Easily – my only reservations being whether he'd be stupid enough to agree to have something like that happen right on his own doorstep.'

Well, perhaps not so close to home after all. We were surprised to discover that the old farmhouse was situated at least a quarter of a mile from the scene of the killings, later explained when we found out that the old barn that had been demolished to make way for the new one had originally belonged to an ancient steading not part of Hagtop Farm, the amalgamation having occurred in the eighteenth century.

We were using our own vehicle, a Range Rover, Patrick having not been issued with official transport, something he would not have wanted as his cars – except those he might use for a very short journey – have to be adapted due to the lower part of his right leg being man-made following the serious injuries he sustained during the Falklands War. This meant that we did not have to pick our way on foot through all the deeply rutted mud in the lane or get stuck in it, as Carrick's car appeared to have done, instead driving between all the other parked vehicles, through the gateway and right up to the front door. Through the uncurtained windows the now familiar figures of forensic personnel wearing white protective clothing could be seen moving about.

‘What the hell's happened out there – have they been making a film about the Great War?' Patrick demanded to know of the constable on duty by the front door, jerking his head in the direction of the mired lane.

‘Apparently an oil-delivery lorry going to the cottage farther up got stuck there a couple of days ago, sir, and so did the recovery vehicle for a while.'

‘Have you seen the DCI?'

‘He's in the yard somewhere, sir.' He pointed around the side of the house.

Carrick and Lynn Outhwaite were examining the interior of what appeared to have been an open-fronted cart shed, latterly used for tractors judging by the oily patches on the earthen floor. Hay was stacked up against the rear wall. Lynn spotted our approach and waved a discreet greeting.

‘Any luck at the mill?' Carrick said to Patrick.

‘No, insofar as no one seems to have heard or seen anything suspicious on Thursday night, but not everyone was at home. We'll have to go back. I'm not hopeful, the place was redeveloped in such a way as to keep neighbours' noise to a minimum. There were a few insights into the murder victims, though. I'll write it all up for you.'

Carrick made no reply, going down on his haunches to have a closer look at the floor. ‘This looks as though it's been disturbed.' He shook his head. ‘Oh, I don't know, it could have been done by an animal.' Rising, he said to Lynn, ‘I know this place is on the market but why has Brian Stonelake moved out already? Most people would live here to keep an eye on it.'

‘Unhappy memories?' she hazarded.

‘Perhaps he needed the money from the sale of the furniture,' Patrick offered. ‘We went to talk to him, by the way. He told us that he was keeping a weather eye on the place.'

Clearly, Carrick tried to find a reason for objecting to the visit and I began to see the real depth of his resentment at Patrick's presence. There was more to it than that; perhaps weakened by his injury and haunted that he might never be able to indulge in the first love of his life, playing rugby, he somehow felt emasculated. Then being required to work alongside another high-octane male was probably just about the worst thing that could have happened to him.

‘Any theories on Stonelake?' he asked grudgingly.

‘He could have had a hand in the murders. He's shifty. But in all fairness that might only be because he's seen his sisters off for the proceeds of the sale. Anything interesting indoors?'

‘Not yet, but we'll see what forensics turn up. I've told SOCO to take up a few floorboards.'

‘Fancy a pint tonight?'

Carrick hesitated. ‘Er – no thanks. I think I'll have to work late.'

‘I could give you a hand, if you like.'

‘Thanks. I'll give you a ring if I need you.'

We split up and Patrick and I spent the rest of the afternoon, wearing wellies, walking over practically every inch of the farm. We found nothing of interest to a criminal investigation even though the exercise did us good. No one appeared to have been digging holes either.

It seemed that Patrick was required to work no longer than a nine-to-five day, and having heard nothing from Carrick – after towing his car out of the mud – we returned to the rectory at a little before six.

‘You know, I can't work like this,' Patrick said, slamming the driver's door on our arrival and speaking for the first time on the journey home.

‘No, well, in recent years you've always been in charge so any awkwardness could be sorted out, pronto,' I said.

‘Awkwardness apart, in D12 days you and I would have simply put our heads together, worked out what we would do next and gone ahead and done it.'

Well, sort of and some of the time, I thought. I said, ‘And tonight we would have probably broken into Brian Stonelake's bungalow when, no doubt, he goes out for a pint or two, and looked for evidence. We can't do things like that now, the cops don't work like that.'

Patrick simmered all the way indoors.

‘Things still difficult?' Elspeth said, after a glance in his direction as we entered the kitchen. ‘Well, it was never going to be easy, was it?'

‘It's like being back at school,' Patrick complained. ‘I'm not used to being sent home for the night. He didn't even want to go out for a drink!'

‘I should imagine James was relieved to be left to get on with the case.'

Patrick turned to her and I did not imagine the flare of anger in his eyes.

‘You know perfectly well he didn't want you,' Elspeth went on. ‘But I don't think you really realized what it would mean.'