“But he never sought promotion? Or got it?”
Vaughn gave a harsh laugh. “There’s not a lot of promotion to be had around here. No, Caleb liked driving. He was his own boss, in his own world. Put him in the van with his music and his fags, and he was happy as a pig in . . . well . . . the proverbial.”
“He worked alone?”
“That was one concession he earned over the years. And there weren’t many as would want to ride with him and put up with the smoke and the music. That prog rock stuff, I think it’s called. Old-fashioned, at any rate. Gives me an earache. And I know smoking’s not strictly legal on the job, but . . . well, it was Caleb’s cab. We usually have a team of two on collections, of course, but the local farmers were happy to help Caleb if they had to. Everyone knew him. He hadn’t a bad word to say for anyone. And he was strong. It wasn’t often he needed a hand with a load.”
Winsome was getting the picture. Caleb Ross was a saint. Well, saint or sinner, it didn’t matter that much; Ross wasn’t the victim who interested them, unless he had played a part in the events of his own demise.
“Do you know if Mr. Ross had any financial problems, any money troubles at all?”
“Caleb? Good Lord, no. At least, he never complained. He lived a simple life. Had a little cottage in Lyndgarth, just off the green, lived there with his wife, Maggie. The kids had grown up and flown the coop. Maggie . . . has anyone . . . ?”
“She’s been informed, sir,” said Gerry.
“That’s a relief. I must pay her a visit. Soon as I . . . well . . .” He waved his hands over the mess of papers. “I thought there was no sense in me staying at home. I couldn’t bear it, just pacing and thinking of poor Caleb. So I came to work. Thought it might take my mind off things.”
“And has it?” Winsome asked.
“Not really. Something like this, it’s hard to get your mind around it. We all have to go eventually, I know that, but Caleb was fit and strong, and about the same age as me. I suppose I assumed he would always be around.”
“From what we can gather, it was just a tragic accident,” said Winsome. “The perfect storm. Though I don’t suppose that’s much consolation.”
One of the elements made a crackling sound, as if a fly had just landed on it. “Then why are you here?” Vaughn asked. “Is it a matter of insurance?”
“Nothing like that, sir,” said Winsome.
“Neil, please. Then what?”
Winsome and Gerry exchanged glances. “You haven’t been watching the news?”
“A constable came to the office,” Vaughn said. “All I know is that he told us Caleb had died in a crash due to severe weather conditions. I didn’t want to go home and see it replayed endlessly on the news. Is that not what happened?”
“That’s exactly what happened,” Winsome said. “A freak hailstorm, a stray sheep and an oncoming car. There’s no question of blame or anything.”
Vaughn looked puzzled. “Then what . . . ?”
“It’s what Mr. Ross was carrying that interests us.”
“I don’t understand. Carrying?”
“There was another body found at the scene.”
“Another body? You mean a human body? Whose?”
“Among the animal parts, sir . . .”
“Good God! I don’t believe it. How could a human body be mistaken for a fallen animal?”
“We don’t think it could, but all the parts were wrapped in black bin liner.”
“Parts?”
“The body had been cut into several pieces. I must ask you to keep this information to yourself for the moment, sir. All the press and TV have are rumors so far.”
“Of course. My God. And you’re saying someone put it there? This human body?”
“It looks very much that way. I can’t imagine it got there by accident.”
“But why?”
“We don’t know why. Right now we’re more concerned about how and who. Obviously, it was meant to be disposed of.” Winsome glanced out of the window. “It would have ended up in your incinerator, most likely, and nobody would have been any the wiser.”
“Except for the crash?”
“That’s right. So what we need to know is what farms Caleb Ross visited yesterday morning, where he might have stopped, say for a tea break, or lunch, and who might have had access to his schedule.”
“I can certainly supply you with a copy of Caleb’s pickup schedule, but surely you can’t think anyone here had anything to do with what happened?”
“We don’t think anything yet, sir. We’re still gathering facts and evidence. Can you help?”
“Certainly.” Vaughn riffled through the papers on his desk. “That’s easy. Our copies of yesterday’s pickup schedule are here somewhere. Caleb’s is . . . ah, here it is.” He brandished two sheets of paper stapled together. “Of course,” Vaughn added, “he didn’t finish his rounds, so he didn’t get to all these places. I think the last one was Alf Wythers, Garsley Farm, just outside Swainshead. He’d probably have had his lunch in the village, then set off over Belderfell Pass to where his next collection point was. But, of course, he never got there.”
Winsome took the list Vaughn handed her, looked it over and passed it to Gerry, who slipped it into her briefcase. “It seems like a long list,” Winsome said. “Was he always so busy?”
“It’s lambing season,” said Vaughn. “Sad to say, but it’s a time of high mortality on the dales farms.”
“Could someone have added to the load at any of the places Mr. Ross visited?”
“It wouldn’t have been that easy. At least not always. Sometimes the fallen animals are kept at some distance from the actual farm buildings, you understand, in which case it probably wouldn’t have been very difficult for some interloper to swap a bag.”
“Is there no record of the numbers? Bags, packages, you know?”
“Of course. Record keeping is essential when you’re dealing with fallen stock. Any carcasses sent off farm for disposal—which is the only legal way to do it, most of the time—must be recorded, and all carcasses must be accompanied by a commercial document while in transit. In triplicate.” Vaughn swallowed. “Of course, in this case, the documents would have . . . well . . .”
“I understand,” said Winsome. “But the farmers would have a record of what stock they had had taken away?”
“Yes. They should.” Vaughn scratched under his collar.
“Is there a problem, sir?”
“No, not really. I mean, ninety-nine percent of the time everything’s shipshape and aboveboard, but sometimes, well, human error can creep in.”
“Even in something as important as fallen stock records?”
“People don’t like to admit it, of course, no more than the police like to admit they make errors, I’m sure.” Vaughn smiled, but neither Winsome nor Gerry Masterson returned it. “But it happens sometimes,” he went on. “Records don’t always match the numbers.”
“Why would that be?”
“Oh, perhaps another animal has died after the list was made up and before pickup. Caleb and the other drivers would usually change it on their copies of the commercial documents, even though they’re not really supposed to.”
“There’s no black market in fallen animals, is there?” Gerry asked. “No profit to be made?”
Vaughn looked puzzled. “No. How could there be? I don’t understand.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps food produce? You know, like the horse meat in the burgers.”
Vaughn laughed. “No. That horse meat business was a direct result of the banning of DSM in meat products.”
“DSM?”
“Desinewed meat. It’s what left when all the good cuts have been taken. It’s used in processed meats.”
“The nostrils and eyelids?” Gerry said.
“It might include them, but that’s not the point. When its use was banned, producers had to find other sources of cheap meat products to make up the shortfall. Hence the horse meat business.”