“What vehicle were they driving?”
“A blue Transit.”
“Registration number?”
“How would I know?” He was starting to get rattled.
“I don’t suppose you know where they were going either?” Hunter said.
“No. They didn’t say.”
He stared ahead with his blank eyes.
Ramsay was intrigued by the midnight wanderings and would have liked to ask more, but knew this wasn’t the time. He turned his attention to Lily.
“Did you go out on Saturday night?”
“No,” she said angrily. “I was too bloody tired after a day at work.”
“Did you hear the Land-Rover return?”
“Yes,” she said. “I was surprised because he came back earlier than I’d expected. Tennish. Before the pubs had closed anyway.”
“Did Mr. Bowles have anyone with him?” Ramsay asked. “Perhaps you heard voices.”
She shook her head. “But that doesn’t mean that he didn’t bring someone back with him. You can hear the Land-Rover a mile away -I think the exhaust must have gone. I’m sure I’d not have heard people talking in the yard. The windows were closed and I was listening to the radio.”
“Had you talked to Mr. Bowles earlier in the day? Did he mention where he might be going?”
“No. Like I said, recently we’ve tried to keep out of his way.”
“And neither of you saw him at all yesterday?”
They shook their heads.
“Didn’t that strike you as odd?”
“No,” Lily said dismissively. “He was a heavy drinker. I suppose I thought he was sleeping off the effects of the night before. That wouldn’t have been unusual. When Cissie was alive she used to drag him off to the chapel but I don’t think he’s been near the place since her funeral.”
“Were there any visitors to the farm?”
“I didn’t see anyone but I was out all afternoon.”
“How did you spend Sunday?”
“We walked into Mittingford to have lunch with friends. The Abbots. They work at the Old Chapel too. And to use their shower. You need friends when you live like this.”
“Did you both go?”
“Yes,” she said with irritation. “You can check if you like.”
“Oh yes, Ms Jackman,” Ramsay said, ‘you can be sure that we will.”
Chapter Six
They were at Laverock Farm until mid-afternoon, mostly hanging about, waiting for the experts to finish, for reinforcements from the Otterbridge team. Then Ramsay sent Hunter back to Mittingford to supervise the setting up of the incident room. Hunter, at least, knew how he liked things.
“I’ll go to talk to the neighbour,” Ramsay said. “Richardson. The one whose lad had a go at Ernie Bowles in the pub. We’ll need someone to manage the livestock until a sale can be arranged. Besides, I’m interested to meet the boy.”
Hunter nodded but he thought Ramsay was wasting his time. He had Sean Slater down for the murder. There was something odd about him; the glazed expression, the way he looked at the girl, the improbable alibi. He was on the point of betting Ramsay a tenner that they’d have Slater for it in the end, but thought better of it. You could never tell how he’d take things like that.
The Richardson farm straddled the lane, with the house on one side, a large open barn on the other and lots of mud on the road between. To the south of the house the land fell away to low fields and a burn. Beyond that there was hill and heather moorland. Next to the barn a row of outhouses had been converted into neat cottages,
each with its own small front garden. In one a middle-aged couple were sitting, eating a late picnic lunch, drinking red wine. They took no notice of Ramsay.
The farmhouse was in full sunlight. The door was wide open. Ramsay knocked and when there was no reply called in. A woman hurried out of one of the inside doors and into the hall. She was perhaps fifty, smartly dressed in a rather unconventional way with a brightly striped loose-weave skirt and jacket. She collected items as she moved a large handbag retrieved from the bottom of the stairs was slung across her shoulder and shoes were stepped into, almost without stopping. She gave the impression of relentless energy and enthusiasm. She had not been aware of Ramsay’s presence and when she saw him she stopped briefly in her tracks.
“You’ll want my husband,” she said breathlessly, assuming, he supposed, that he was a vet or a food rep. “Round the back in the kitchen. If you’re quick you might even get a cup of tea.”
And she was gone. He stood on the step and watched while she got into her new Fiesta and drove away.
He walked around the outside of the house. The windows were low and he could see into a large living room with a chintz sofa and chairs, a grand piano. It was very different from Laverock Farm. The kitchen door was at the side of the house, slightly open. There were two pairs of Wellingtons on the step and inside people were talking. He tapped on the door.
“Yes?” said an impatient voice, with a strong local accent. “What is it?”
Ramsay pushed open the door.
The speaker was a squat bull terrier of a man with wild grey hair and bushy eyebrows. He sat in a wicker basket chair cupping a mug of tea in his hand. As he moved the wicker creaked. A younger man stood by the table leaning against it. The kitchen looked as if it had come out of a magazine for townies aspiring to country living. The red quarry tile floor matched the red Aga. There were earthenware crocks, gleaming pans, drying herbs. The men in their stockinged feet and overalls seemed strangely out of place.
“Mr. Richardson?” Ramsay said.
The older man stood up and looked at him. “Aye. And who the hell are you?” It was, Ramsay felt, his standard greeting. He introduced himself.
“You’ll be here about Ernie Bowles. You’d best come in then.”
“You know about Mr. Bowles?”
“You don’t think you could keep a thing like that quiet. Your chaps turned away the post van this morning and the postman came straight on here. It’ll be all over the county by now.”
“Yes,” Ramsay said. “I suppose it will.”
“How can I help you then?”
“I’m worried about Bowles’s stock,” Ramsay said.
“I don’t know why. He never bothered much.”
“Someone needs to look after things. I was wondering if you could come to an arrangement with his solicitor. It shouldn’t take me long to find out who that is.”
“No need for that,” Richardson said. “It’s Johnny Wright in Mittingford. I should know. I’ve had enough solicitor’s letters from him.” He paused. “You can leave it to me. I’ll keep an eye on things until the place goes up for sale.” And it occurred to Ramsay that Richardson had already thought things through, that he was considering Laverock Farm for himself. And then, sensing the younger man’s interest, he thought: No, he intends buying it for his son.
“What were the solicitor’s letters about?” Ramsay asked.
“Planning matters,” Richardson said shortly.
“What sort of planning matters?”
“We were trying to make a living,” Richardson said. “Not easy for farmers at the moment.”
There was a silence which Ramsay did not fill and he felt forced to continue.
“My wife’s always taken in a few guests for bed and breakfast. She was in catering before we married. It’s what she knows. She didn’t make much but she enjoyed it. Said it was keeping her hand in, like.” He spoke of his wife with a mixture of awe, admiration and incomprehension. “It was her idea to expand that side of the business. The first year we had a few campers and caravanners on the bottom field. Then we decided to convert some of the outhouses into holiday cottages. She saw to all that. She talked to the architects, worked out a business plan, got the finance. A couple of months ago we got an award from the Tourist Board. She’s planning to expand again, talking about opening a restaurant. That’s where she’s off to today. To talk to the bank manager.”