Helen’s father stood, rangy and tall, tweed jacket fraying at the cuffs. “I noticed one of the cows had pink-eye this morning. I better go and check,” he said.
He left the mug in the sink and opened the door. Leaning on the frame, he tugged on his Wellington boots. Cold air filled the kitchen.
“Poor old bloke,” said Sharman when he had gone. “He’s not doing too well, all things considered. It’s a bloody shame.” He scratched the back of his hand.
Mrs. Tozer said, “I expect you two need to talk.”
“Lovely grub, Mrs. T. As always,” Sharman called after her. When she was out of earshot, Sharman said, “You should have stayed in a hotel, instead of bothering them here. It’s only going to upset them, bringing this kind of business into their house.”
“Is that why you came? To tell me that?”
Sharman took a gulp from his tea. “I spoke to Block this morning. He’s not had a sign of Mrs. Sullivan yet. Nor has anyone else.”
“Did he call up Marylebone CID this morning?”
He nodded. “She hasn’t turned up there, either.”
Breen sat down at the old kitchen table opposite Sharman, watching him take another bite from his sandwich. Sharman chewed his mouthful, swallowed, then said, “I expect she’ll turn up, sooner or later. So. You and Helen, you going out?”
“Sorry?”
“Interested, that’s all. I know she doesn’t think that much of me these days.”
“No. I mean, we’re not going out.”
“She’s a great girl. My trouble was I was too keen, I suppose.” Sharman smiled. “Frightened her off. I should have been more patient.” He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and belched quietly. “To business. Supposing it was Julia Sullivan that did it, what do you think it was you said to them that made her blow his head off?”
“I thought this was Block’s case.”
“We’re all in this together down here. It’s not like the Met.”
“Block is sure it was Julia Sullivan?”
“It’s a theory,” Sharman said. “Apparently he was in London the day before their daughter was killed. So you think he was involved in the death of his daughter?”
“Somehow. But he was back in Devon by the day she was actually killed. So it doesn’t make sense.”
“And why would he kill his own daughter?”
“I have no idea.”
Sharman nodded.
“I think the major was covering something up too,” said Breen. He told Sharman how the major had lied to his wife about reporting their daughter missing to the police.
“Probably thought you lot at the Met are useless anyway.”
Helen Tozer clattered into the room. She glared at Sharman. “I thought I heard your voice. What are you doing here?” she said, looking at his empty plate in front of him. “Isn’t your wife feeding you enough?”
Sharman stood again. “Nice to see you too, Hel. I was just saying to Sergeant Breen. I would have thought he would have stayed in a hotel rather than here.”
“What’s wrong with the farm?” She cut herself a slice of bread and buttered it thickly.
“I heard you were down. Val called me up last night. Said she’d seen you in town. I came to talk about your case.”
“I knew she wouldn’t keep her mouth shut.” She took a jar of honey from the shelf. “Did you see Dad?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose you talked to him.”
“Of course. We’re old friends, him and me.”
She stuck the knife deep into the honey. “Tell him about our girl that was killed and everything?”
Sharman leaned back on his elbows. “Your dad seemed to think you were investigating some nudie movie setup.”
“Did you tell him?”
“Why not?”
“You’re such a prannock, Fred. Where is he now?” She spread the bread thickly with honey.
“Just gone out. Something about a cow with pink-eye.”
She walked to the window and looked out into the yard.
“You heard I got a baby now?”
“Good for you.”
“A boy.”
“Naturally.”
She took a bite out of the slice of bread, laid it down on the counter, then picked up the kettle and filled it at the tap; it hissed when she placed it on the range. Then she picked up an apple from a bowl on the windowsill and set about cutting it into quarters with a small knife.
“Another thing,” Breen said quietly. “Where did the major get his money from?”
“What money?”
“They were in debt. But he’s got a brand-new Jag.”
Sharman nodded. “Good point.” He picked up a silver salt pot from the table and turned it upside down so that salt poured out onto the wood. “Very good point. So where do you think she’s gone?”
“Assuming it was her who killed him…”
“Yes.”
“Maybe to London,” said Tozer. “That’s where her daughter’s body is.”
“What you still doing down here if she’s up in London, then?”
“Our car got wrecked. You remember?” The kettle started to whistle.
“Let’s say, for a moment, that she killed him because something you said made her realize he’d killed their daughter.”
“Brilliant work, Sherlock,” said Tozer, lighting a cigarette.
“Only like I said, Major Sullivan wasn’t in London the day she was killed,” said Breen.
“I got a feeling, though,” said Sharman.
Tozer said, “That’s what makes you so great at catching murderers, then.”
“Don’t be hard on us poor country boys, Helen. You used to be part of the gang too.”
Breen had been enjoying witnessing Tozer’s spikiness directed at someone else, but the longer it went on, the more he felt like an eavesdropper at a lovers’ quarrel. He shut his eyes and rubbed his temple.
“Is he all right? He looks a bit peaky. Don’t you think?”
“He’s fine,” said Tozer. “Are you done now?”
After his car had gone up the track to the main road, tires crunching on gravel, Tozer said, “I think he still fancies me, don’t you, sir?”
Breen just said, “He was right, wasn’t he? I shouldn’t have stayed here.”
Tozer pulled on a pair of boots and went to find her father.
The house was empty. Breen picked up the phone and called the station. The ordinary daily noise of the office in the background made him want to be there.
“Bailey’s had Devon and Cornwall on the blower complaining about you for not letting them know what you were doing down there,” said Marilyn.
“Is he there now?”
“No.” Even the familiar sound of one-fingered typing in the background sounded sweet to Breen. He thought of the thick-smoked air of the office and the dark floorboards.
“What’s going on, Paddy?”
“We’ll be back Monday morning. Can you get us train tickets for the weekend?”
“Us?”
“Yes. Constable Tozer and me.”
“Thought you had a car?”
“It got smashed up.”
“Prosser said you’ve been letting her drive. Did she do it?”
“It was nothing to do with her. We were rammed.”
“You’re getting a reputation as a man who breaks things, Paddy. Bailey is going to kick up a stink about paying for a hotel for those extra days.”
“He doesn’t have to. We’re not staying in a hotel.”
“Where are you staying then?”
“I’m staying at the Tozers’ farm.”
“At Helen Tozer’s house?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” Pause.
“I’m just staying here. That’s all. It’s convenient.”
“What you do is your own business, Paddy. Why would I care?”
“What’s the news?”
“Nothing much. Uniform are up in arms because leave is canceled this weekend.”
“Why?”
“On account of the Vietnam demonstration at the American Embassy coming up next weekend. You getting anywhere with the dead girl?”
“I’m not sure.”
“So did Tozer invite you to stay at hers? I mean, there’s got to be plenty of B and Bs. It’s famous for them.”
“We’re in separate rooms if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I didn’t mean that,” she snapped.
He dialed again, this time the number of the solicitor whose name he’d found amongst the Sullivans’ letters. Afterwards he searched in his pocket for a couple of shillings to put in the tin marked Phone.