The farming had been fine for a few years, but things got progressively tougher until he knew he had to sell. There had always been offers — it was commuting distance to Edinburgh and housing was always needed. Nobody wanted the land for farming, Brand eventually convincing the relevant bodies that it could be re-zoned — green belt no longer. Carlton’s loans and interest would be repaid, and he’d even have a bit left over, though it meant letting down Gerry and the various part-time farm labourers, plus his uncle’s memory.
All of this they had learned by the time the flustered-looking solicitor arrived. Her name was Sian Grant. Clarke didn’t know her. She looked young — still in her twenties — and inexperienced. But she would also be idealistic and hungry; Clarke knew they couldn’t afford to underestimate her. Sutherland had decided that Clarke and Crowther should be the first ones to question Carlton — as a reward, and because they knew as much as anyone, if not more. Crowther got the equipment ready after Carlton had had ten minutes with his lawyer. Teas were fetched, the farmer trying hard not to grimace when he lifted the mug.
‘Sure you’re up to this?’ Grant asked him.
‘It’s going to happen anyway, isn’t it? If not now, then later?’ He watched Clarke give a pleasant nod. ‘Let’s get on with it then.’
The three women shifted in their seats, composing themselves. Carlton’s overalls hadn’t been done up quite right, his left arm across his strapped chest preventing buttoning. He seemed self-conscious about it. Whenever his good hand wasn’t holding the mug, he tugged at the blue cotton, trying to pull the garment closed.
‘Cold?’ his lawyer asked.
He shook his head, and they began. Clarke got him to fill in some of his biography, leading up to the purchase of the farm.
‘Whole family thought I was bonkers,’ he admitted. ‘Maybe I was, but I’d been going to my uncle’s since I was a toddler. Always took school pals there, especially in the summer break. It was a giant adventure playground. Never looked like hard work to me. Long hours, but I didn’t mind that.’
‘We’re interested,’ Clarke eventually said, ‘in how Stuart Bloom’s Volkswagen Polo ended up in a corner of one of your fields.’
‘Lot of stuff got left there.’
‘Sorry,’ the lawyer broke in. ‘Do you have evidence that the car in question was at my client’s farm?’
‘We’re pretty confident.’
‘But until you can prove it, it remains supposition, yes? And he’s just told you that things got dumped in his fields — fly-tipping is a perennial problem in the countryside.’
‘Actually,’ Crowther corrected her, ‘the word he used was “left” rather than “dumped”.’
‘Left under a tarpaulin,’ Clarke added, ‘so no one would see what was inside. But you must have known, Mr Carlton?’
He looked to his solicitor. She shook her head.
‘Our theory is,’ Clarke continued, ‘that the car and its contents had to be moved when discussions started about selling the land to a developer. It couldn’t be left there for others to find. Must have had a hell of a job getting it out of that quagmire, but I suppose a tractor and tow chain would come in handy.’
‘We’ll have the scene-of-crime and forensic lab report within the next few hours,’ Crowther added. ‘They’ve logged all the vegetation that had grown through the Polo’s chassis. They have soil samples that these days are as good as fingerprints. Chances are there’ll even be a few threads from the tarpaulin stuck to the Polo. Trust me, a few threads are all they need.’
‘But as of right now,’ Grant countered, ‘you don’t have any of that, DC Crowther.’
‘We have your client fleeing the scene,’ Clarke told the lawyer, ‘soon as he saw someone next to where the Polo had been. A woman perched on the bonnet of an old van, waving — scare easily, do you, Mr Carlton?’
‘Not something I expected to see,’ he muttered by way of explanation.
‘Actually, that word “scare” reminds me of something.’ Clarke pretended to be finding some information in the folder in front of her. ‘You acted in some zombie films for Jackie Ness, didn’t you?’
The question seemed to catch Carlton off guard. ‘Just in the background.’
Clarke showed him a still from Bravehearts. ‘This is you, yes? Next to your friend Gram?’
‘If you say so.’
‘I’m asking you what you say.’
‘Could be anyone,’ Grant prompted.
‘Could be anyone,’ Carlton duly parroted.
‘But you did play an extra in that film? And in others, too?’
‘Loads of us from the village did. It was a good laugh.’
‘You didn’t get paid, did you, or fed and watered come to that?’
‘Wasn’t why we did it.’
‘Plenty of drugs, though, eh? To keep the spirits up?’
‘I’m not sure what you’re...’ Grant began, but Clarke’s words rolled right over her.
‘Drugs brought along by your good friend Gram. Your good friend Gram who also managed to supply a pair of handcuffs when one scene demanded them, handcuffs identical to the ones found around a murdered man’s ankles in a car that was parked on your land for almost a decade.’ Clarke broke off, giving time for her words to take effect. ‘All of which makes you an accessory, at the very least. Unless you helped murder Stuart Bloom as well as disposing of his body.’
Grant had swivelled her whole body towards her client, demanding his full attention.
‘None of this is proven at this point. It’s a fishing expedition, Andrew, that’s all. The allegations are serious, which is why you shouldn’t have to deal with them until your mind is lucid and free from pain.’ Then to Clarke: ‘You hit him full-on with your car, Inspector. Concussion may be the least of it.’
Clarke ignored the lawyer. Her focus remained on Andrew Carlton, just as his eyes stayed fixed to hers. When he said something, Clarke didn’t quite catch it, masked as it was by Grant’s continuing remonstration.
‘Sorry, Andrew,’ she said, gesturing for the lawyer to be quiet, ‘what was that?’
Carlton’s eyes dropped but his voice was strong and steady. ‘Graeme was his real name. Not Gram. Graeme.’
‘And his surname?’
‘Hatch.’
Clarke watched Crowther scratch the name on her pad in large capital letters. ‘And what happened to Graeme?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘I think you do. I don’t suppose he still looks like this?’ Clarke held up the still from the film. The farmer managed a rueful smile.
‘We can trace him, you know,’ Crowther said. ‘Better for you to cooperate and not be found out later to have held anything back.’
‘He moved away for a while,’ Carlton conceded. ‘Changed his name, changed everything...’ He was lost in thought for a moment. ‘I didn’t know what was in the car. Nothing was in it when he brought it, nothing I could see.’
‘Bloom’s body was in the boot,’ Clarke stated quietly. Tears were welling up in Carlton’s eyes.
‘I need five minutes with my client,’ Sian Grant demanded.