A Death to Record (9 page)

‘Seems a daft sort of set-up to me,’ Den agreed.

‘Try explaining that to them,’ she sighed.

‘So, what was Sean’s line on all this? And Hillcock’s?’

‘Sean automatically despised anything the Government did, on principle. He just wanted farmers to be left alone to get on with the job. Not very realistic, to say the least.’

‘And Hillcock?’

She tightened her lips and stared at the table in front of her for a moment. ‘Gordon’s more complicated,’ she said. ‘More intelligent, too.’

‘Would you say they disagreed a lot?’

She laughed. ‘All the time. I think it was the only way they could communicate, through an everlasting argument. It was quite entertaining at times.’

‘Did you ever see it get nasty?’

She shook her head. ‘I very seldom saw them together,’ she explained. ‘Just for a couple of minutes in the morning sometimes, at the end of
milking. Sean disobeyed most of Gordon’s orders – or he said he did.’

‘And got away with it?’ Den was struggling to get the picture.

Deirdre heaved a sigh. ‘Remember I only saw them once a month. Usually it was Sean doing the milking, so I very rarely got Gordon’s side of the story. And he was much less forthcoming, anyway. You need to understand what it’s like. Milking’s a lonely business, so they mostly take the opportunity of talking their heads off when it’s recording. A lot of what they say is rubbish – just letting off steam to someone they think is uninvolved, impartial. From the things he said to me, I’d put Sean down as sullen, resentful and worried about his job. Most of the herdsmen are the same around here.’

‘And the farm owners?’

‘They’re worried too. Money is running down the drain and most of them have given themselves a cut-off date. If things aren’t better by then, they’ll have to sell up. Dairying isn’t financially viable these days.’

Den had been aware of the crisis in the industry, as had everyone living in rural areas. ‘And that wouldn’t make for a very relaxed atmosphere,’ he suggested. ‘Have you been expecting Dunsworthy to go out of milk?’

She shook her head again. ‘Not this year.
Although I have often been surprised by farmers packing it in, with almost no warning. If they have got TB, there’ll be compensation, and they can buy in new cows from the south-east, where things are even worse commercially and animals are going for a low price. And they have nothing like the same levels of TB. I must admit, I see Gordon as one of the survivors.’

‘So would you say there’d been anything new or different at Dunsworthy recently? Any change in either Hillcock or O’Farrell?’

She pondered over the question. ‘Not that I can think of,’ she said at last.

Den also pondered, thinking about the body on the mortuary slab, the damage to it, both old and new, the sense he’d picked up of someone neglected, unloved. ‘What was he like to work with?’ he asked, tapping his pencil against
efficient, reliable
, the words she’d used about Sean, knowing they couldn’t be taken as positively as they seemed on the page.

‘Look,’ she began, betraying some agitation, ‘the way different herdsmen treat their cows is fundamental. Not one of them is sentimental about it, but there are those who are gentle by nature, and nearly as bovine as their animals. Even they will hit out, or shout, and to anyone from a town, it might look cruel. Especially these days, when the world’s gone so soft. But Sean wasn’t
bovine. He wasn’t patient, either, not really. You never knew where you were with him, that was his trouble. The cows didn’t know, either. One minute he’d be gentling them and crooning to them, and the next he’d be laying into a heifer for trying to kick him. I’ve seen him do real damage. His fists were like iron.’ Pain crossed her face and she put a hand to her side; Den became alarmed at the implication.

‘He didn’t hit
you
, did he?’

She shook her head vigorously. ‘Of course he didn’t. But when he punched a cow in the ribs, in some crazy way I felt it myself. It’s very
intense
in the milking parlour, you know. You’re enclosed with the man and the animals, as if the world outside didn’t exist. Everything’s heightened – you feel every little thing. It’s difficult to describe. But Sean was not my favourite man to work with, by a long way.’

Den made more jottings, finally feeling that the picture of Sean O’Farrell was coming into focus. But it was still full of contradictions. ‘And yet he seems to have been such a good husband to his sick wife.’

Deirdre sighed, as if in relief. ‘That was easy,’ she said. ‘She’s been like that for years now. So long as he kept her happy and listened to her moaning, he didn’t need to worry about her. And it made him look good – just as you say. I think
he lived his real life well away from Heather and the cottage. It sounds daft, and it took me years to understand it myself, but her illness was really quite liberating for him.’

‘Are you saying he had other women?’ Den felt a new twinge of alarm at the thought of outraged husbands.

‘Oh, no, I don’t think so,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Nothing as obvious as that. But he had a lot of empty time. That’s probably why he took up with the protest group.’

They were silent for a moment. Den examined her more closely: a substantial woman, tall, with wide shoulders and generous hips, her hair carelessly gathered back in a wide rubber band, she seemed to have herself well under control. There was some kind of invisible layer around her, something protective that kept her at a slight remove from events going on around her. Her features were masklike – there were no lines on her face, neither from laughter nor frowns. She moved her hands more than her mouth or eyes.

It was clear to Den that she didn’t really care that Sean O’Farrell was dead, or, probably, that Gordon Hillcock might be charged for murder. She was detached, taking the role of observer, and Den found this both useful and unsettling.

‘Let me just run through the timings again,’
he said. ‘Did Hillcock leave the parlour at all, during the milking?’

‘Definitely not for long enough to commit a murder,’ said Deirdre dryly.

‘Would you have seen Sean in the gathering yard when you parked your car – what was that? Two o’clock? – if he’d been lying there?’

‘It was ten past two, I should think. I can’t be exact to the last minute. And no, I never go wandering around the yards. They’re always muddy or slippery, apart from anything else. The gathering yard is at the far end of the barn where we found him. You’ll have worked that out, of course. I wouldn’t have any reason to go in the barn or the yard.’

Den thought quickly, and jotted
No
need to conceal the body?
on his pad. It was a point he had not yet discussed with the DI. He pressed the point with Deirdre. ‘Not even if you were looking for Hillcock to ask him something?’

She paused. ‘Well, then I might,’ she conceded. ‘In fact, I did walk round there this morning, when I heard the tractor. I wanted to know who was doing the milking – if Gordon had come home.’

‘So who was it?’

‘Lilah Beardon – Gordon’s girlfriend.’

Den kept his face expressionless. ‘Was she on the tractor?’

‘She was scraping down. Rather beyond the call of duty, if you ask me.’

Den let a small silence draw a line under that subject. ‘Did you see Mr Hillcock when you arrived yesterday afternoon?’

She nodded. ‘He popped his head round the office door, to say hello, just for a few seconds.’

‘And did you see which way he went after that?’

‘No.’

‘What was his mood like yesterday?’

‘A bit tense. On edge. I wasn’t in the best of moods myself, so I just thought we’d both struck a bad day. It was cold, and we were keeping our heads down and getting on with it. My computer died, which was an extra annoyance. But, really, everything’s an endurance test this time of year.’

‘Did he say anything about Sean?’

‘Nothing much. Just about him having an unexpected afternoon off because Gordon had swapped the days. And I asked after Heather.’

‘Did you get a response?’

‘Not really. I was just making conversation. I don’t think Gordon has anything to do with her if he can help it.’

‘You arrived just after two p.m. and the milking started at three, but Hillcock was with you from two-forty – is that right?’

She nodded doubtfully. ‘He was in and out
of the parlour, fixing up the special equipment I need for catching milk samples. He wasn’t
with
me, exactly. I had more trouble numbering my pots accurately, because of the computer. Do you want me to explain the whole procedure?’

‘No, thanks. When did you last see Sean O’Farrell alive?’

‘Last month, of course. The December recording.’

‘So, just to go over it again – nothing unusual happened during the time between your arrival on the farm and the start of milking?’

‘Only my bloody computer packing up.’ She stared balefully at the offending machine, where it sat recharging at one end of the table. ‘It used to do that a lot, but I thought I’d got it sorted out. I think there’s a loose connection in the cable, so it doesn’t charge up when I think it does.’

Den remained uninterested in the computer. In the pause that followed he inspected the big farmhouse kitchen they were sitting in. Generously warmed by a big old Aga, it was obviously the favoured haunt of two cats, curled on the cushions of a wooden settle under the window. A stack of magazines and newspapers cluttered one end of the big table, and a substantial amount of washing-up seemed to have been waiting for attention since at least the previous day. They both seemed to realise
simultaneously that the interview was effectively over.

It was time he left, but the image of the body in the mortuary once again floated in front of his eyes. He tapped his pencil against his teeth. ‘Do you know what happened to his ear?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Sean O’Farrell – something had torn his ear half off, not so long ago.’

‘Oh yes,’ she responded readily. ‘That was Fergus, Gordon’s Alsation. He was a rescue dog and his temper was always a bit unpredictable. He was okay with me – I’m very good with dogs. But Sean couldn’t get anywhere with him. He took it quite personally, I think – the fact that Fergus would let me pet him, but not Sean. I wasn’t there when it happened, but they both told me the story. Two different versions, of course, but I gather the dog went for him one day last summer. Got hold of his ear and wouldn’t let go. Made quite a mess, but it healed up perfectly all right. Everyone said Gordon should have the dog put down, but he wouldn’t.’

‘Did Sean report it?’

Deirdre shook her head. ‘Gordon told him he’d give him the sack if he got the dog in trouble.’

‘Where’s Fergus now?’

She looked down at her hands, which were loosely interlocked. ‘Dead,’ she mumbled. ‘I’m
not entirely sure what happened, but Gordon said somebody poisoned him. It was horrible, apparently – he took all day to die.’

‘And nobody put him out of his misery?’ Den was incredulous.

‘Apparently not.’

‘But they shoot all those calves. It would have been easy to do.’

She smiled bleakly. ‘Gordon loved the dog. I guess he hoped it would get better. It’s not everyone who can shoot their own dog, you know. And Gordon’s soft in his way.’

‘So who poisoned him?’

‘I hate to think anyone did it deliberately. Farmers put poison down for vermin now and then, and there’s all kinds of stuff about the place that could have done it. Gordon wouldn’t pay for a post-mortem to find out exactly what it was. He had run up a massive vet’s bill as it was, and wasn’t keen to let it go any higher.’ She swallowed visibly. ‘Though I suppose I should tell you that Sean made a poor show of hiding his relief that Fergus was out of the way.’

‘Oh?’

‘I can’t say more than that. I’d be guessing if I said Sean had anything to do with the poisoning. I don’t suppose anybody knows for sure.’

But it would give us a motive
, mused Den silently. ‘When did all this happen?’

‘August, September – thereabouts. I asked Gordon where the dog was when I met him in the yard, and he choked out the story.’

Den scribbled busily in his notebook. Then he glanced at his watch, to discover he had twelve minutes to finish his interview and meet Young Mike at Dunsworthy.

‘I’ll have to go in a minute,’ he said. ‘I think we’ve covered everything for now. Thank you – you’ve been very helpful.’

Her smile held something of complacency in it, he thought, and remembered his irritation towards her show of cleverness the previous day. He had an impression of a woman who felt she’d acquitted herself well and could award herself a gold star accordingly. He reminded himself that she had been at the scene of a murder, with more than enough means and opportunity, and possibly motive, once the whole story was known. Certainly she hadn’t liked Sean very much.

‘I’ll need to see your clothes,’ he said suddenly. ‘The ones you were wearing yesterday afternoon.’

‘My recording suit, you mean? Too late, I’ve washed them. They’re hanging on the line outside. I always do them as soon as I get in from a morning milking.’

Den suppressed a sigh. ‘What did you have on underneath? I assume you don’t put on the protective suit until just before the milking starts?’

She plucked at the jumper she was wearing. ‘This,’ she said, ‘and my black jeans. They’re in the wash as well.’

‘Actually in the machine?’

‘No – the laundry basket.’

Den brusquely asked her to go and fetch them. At least, he thought unhappily, he’d have something for forensics to examine.

It was more difficult to leave than he had anticipated. At the final moment, a last question occurred to him. ‘Exactly how long have you known Gordon Hillcock?’

For the first time, a flush suffused her cheeks. ‘Thirty-five years,’ she said, with a girlish giggle. ‘We were at primary and secondary school together.’

‘And after that?’

‘Oh, well, after that I married Robin and Gordon never seemed capable of settling down, and …’ she tailed off.

‘Are you telling me you were in a relationship at one time?’

The flush deepened and she shook her head slowly. ‘No-o-o,’ she said and paused. ‘No,’ she said again more decisively. ‘We were never in a relationship.’