“And Mr. Bowles objected to all these plans?”
“Cissie started it. Said she didn’t want strangers trespassing all over her land. Ernie just took over when she died.”
“But you went ahead all the same?”
“Of course. He had no real grounds for objection. There was no way our guests could stray over to Laverock Farm. It was just spite.” He walked stiffly to the table to pour more tea, turned to Ramsay and asked grudgingly:
“Do you want a cup?”
Ramsay shook his head.
“And then he had the bloody nerve to tell me that he was going into the same line of business himself.”
“In what way?”
“You know he’s got those hippies living there?”
“Yes.”
“Apparently that was only the start. He said he’d decided to open up Laverock Farm for a weekend for one of those festivals. You know, the
New Age things that they show on the television. Convoys of travellers descending on an area doing God knows what damage. Loud music all night. Drugs. And no way of knowing when they’re going to move on or where they’re going to end up next.” He paused for breath.
“When was this festival going to take place?”
“June,” Bowles said. “The summer solstice.”
“Was he serious?”
“No!” Peter Richardson interrupted with a sneer. “It was just a wind up.”
“How was I to know?” the father demanded angrily. “That man was capable of anything.”
“You objected to the plan? Formally?”
“Of course I bloody objected. We run a classy operation, up market Sue sees to that. I didn’t want my punters frightened off by a load of drug-crazed morons.”
“Yes,” Ramsay said. “I understand.”
“Do you?” Richardson was almost shouting. “It’s only the holiday side of the business that’s stopped us from going bankrupt.” He stopped abruptly.
Ramsay turned to Peter, the son, who had been watching the exchange with an amused detachment. He seemed untroubled by the prospect of bankruptcy or perhaps his father had made the threat so many times that he no longer believed it. He was full of himself. Ramsay could see that. Too cocky by half. If he’d been brought up on an inner city estate he’d have been a delinquent, a stealer of flash cars, the sort of lad who didn’t mind a prison sentence because it gave him the reputation for being hard. Here in the country Ramsay suspected he would have the same reputation, but with less effort. He’d be a heavy drinker, known for screwing his suppliers for the best possible deal, a jack the lad to be rather admired.
“Is that what your argument with Mr. Bowles was about?” Ramsay asked.
“What do you mean?” Peter Richardson spoke insolently.
“I understand there was a fight in a Mittingford pub.”
“That?” The boy laughed. “That wasn’t a fight. He’d have been in hospital if he tried to mess with me. He tripped, that was all. I wouldn’t waste my time on him.”
“But there was an argument. What was that about?”
“He needed teaching a lesson,” Peter said, contradicting himself. “He was a mucky old sod.”
Ramsay saw his father flash him a look of warning but he took no notice.
“So you decided to teach him a lesson,” Ramsay said. “Why that night?”
“He was annoying my girl. She didn’t like it and I wasn’t going to stand for it. Sexual harassment, that’s what it was. Leering across the bar at her, suggesting all sorts. It’s an offence these days, isn’t it? I was doing your job for you, that’s all.”
“You didn’t have any other occasions to teach him a lesson?” Ramsay asked. His voice was dangerously quiet.
At last the boy seemed to recognize the need for caution.
“No!” he said. “I’ve told you. He wasn’t worth bothering about. I just kept out of his way.”
“When was the last time you saw Mr. Bowles?”
Peter Richardson shook his head. “Don’t know. Probably not since that time in the pub.” He gave a little triumphant laugh. “He probably kept out of my way after that.”
Ramsay turned to the father. “And you, Mr. Richardson?”
“I’ve not seen him to speak to since he was up here with that plan for the New Age festival. I’d only lose my temper. I’ve passed him sometimes in the lane when he was driving that Land-Rover of his…”
“Did you see the Land-Rover this weekend?”
Richardson shook his head.
“You didn’t notice any strange cars on the land?”
“Not ‘specially. But this time of the year lots of people come out from town for a ride in the country. That’s why Sue thinks she could make a go of a restaurant.”
Sue, it seemed, was some kind of oracle.
“What about a blue Transit van, early Sunday morning, coming from the Mittingford direction?”
“No.” He turned to his son. “You were out shooting yesterday morning. Did you see anything?”
“No.” But the reply was automatic. He could not be bothered to remember.
“Where were you shooting?” Ramsay asked.
“On our land. Nowhere near a footpath. No law against that, is there?”
“Could you have seen the road from where you were?”
“No.”
“What about Laverock Farm?”
“Yeah, I was over that way. I had a view down on the farm.”
“Did you see anyone about?”
“Only that hippy couple. They walked down the track and on to the road. They started walking towards town, hitching.”
“Did anyone give them a lift?”
“Not that I saw.”
They would be on their way into Mittingford to have lunch with their friends. That part of the story fitted in.
“Have you had any dealings with Miss Jackman and Mr. Slater?” he asked the older man.
“The travellers? No. He came round asking for work when he first arrived but I told him we had nothing. Not that I’d have taken him on anyway.”
“Why?”
Richardson seemed not to think that worth answering.
“You didn’t ever meet them socially?”
“No. They seem an unfriendly pair. Keep themselves to themselves.”
That, Ramsay thought, was hardly surprising.
“You see the lad about, though. Walking. All times of day and night. I don’t think he’s quite all right in the head.” He paused, before adding reluctantly, “Never caused any bother, though. Keeps to the footpaths.”
“Did you see him on your land over the weekend?”
There was a pause. “I can’t remember,” Richardson said at last. “He’s around so often that I don’t notice him any more, if you know what I mean. You take him for granted.”
Chapter Seven
Mittingford police station was built in the same overblown style as the Old Chapel and stood close to it in the High Street with a view from the back down to the river. It too had the air of a building which had become redundant. Now it was only manned at all as a gesture to rural policing. Everyone knew it was being run down in preparation for closure. Stone steps led to a grand doorway but inside it was shabby, gloomy and overheated.
Hunter was lording it in the incident room, irritating his colleagues on the team and putting up the backs of the locals.
“They say we can use this…” he told Ramsay, looking around him disparagingly. “I suppose it’s better than nowt. Just.”
It had been some sort of storeroom and a line of men in shirt sleeves were carrying out boxes, piles of rubbish. In time it would be transformed into a modern incident room with computer terminals and phone lines. Now it was dusty and depressing. Hunter was perched on the windowsill, supervising. He was in his element.
“I’ve sent Sal Wedderburn to check the hippies’ alibi for Sunday,” Hunter said. “The Abbots both work at the Alternative Therapy
Centre at the Old Chapel. She’s gone to talk to them there. It’s not really relevant now, though. The pathologist’s just phoned with his first impressions. Bowles was killed between 8 p.m. Saturday evening and 8 a.m. Sunday morning. He’ll try to narrow it down but he’s quite certain that the old man was dead by the time Jackman and Slater went off for their Sunday lunch.”