He’d been expecting a police car or an ambulance. No siren. There was no rush after all; the bloke was quite clearly dead and cold. Percy had been thinking about it. At first he’d assumed some sort of accident. But if the lad had been knocked into the ditch by a car he’d have been lying on top of the vegetation, not hidden underneath it. The same would be true if the man had been taken ill. He might be walking on the verge to keep out of the way of a car or a tractor, but he wouldn’t be that close to the ditch. Percy had come to the conclusion the bloke had been put there. Hidden. Even a walker in the lane wouldn’t have seen the body unless he’d scrambled through the undergrowth like Percy, who’d been trying to retain a bit of his dignity by getting away from the road. Then he heard a vehicle, an old vehicle, coughing and spluttering. Madge had been asleep, but she woke up, gave a little growl until Percy put his hand on her neck. It was a Land Rover, so mucky and bashed that it was impossible to make out the original colour, and there was a woman at the wheel. He got out of his car to tell her that she was on the wrong road and this was a dead-end, and anyway she wouldn’t get past him here, but she stopped and got out. He wondered how her knees managed the weight of her on the deep step down to the tarmac. She was big. No beauty. Bad skin and bad clothes, but lovely eyes. Brown like conkers.
‘Percy Douglas?’ A local voice.
He thought he might have seen her in The Lamb. Not a regular, but occasionally. The size of her, you wouldn’t miss her even if she was sitting on her own in a corner.
‘Aye.’ It still didn’t occur to him that she was here because of the body.
‘I’m Vera Stanhope. Detective Inspector. I don’t get out of the office much these days, but I live not far off, so I thought I’d come along.’ She groped in her pockets for a moment, as if she was planning to show him some ID, but in the end all she pulled out was a half-eaten tube of mints. She gave up. ‘Are you going to let me see this body of yours?’
‘Nothing to do with me.’ But he started down the lane.
‘Hang on. I’d best dress the part or the CSIs will cut me up into slices and stick me in one of their fancy microscopes.’ She reached into the Land Rover and pulled out a packet wrapped in plastic. There was a white paper suit with a hood, and white boots to go over her shoes. ‘I know,’ she said, when she was all dressed up, ‘I look like the Abominable Snowman.’
She made him stay on the lane and point her in the direction of the body. She stood on the bank and looked down into the ditch. ‘How did you find him? You can hardly see him, even from here.’
Percy felt himself blushing.
‘Call of nature, was it?’
He nodded.
‘I get taken short myself these days. Not so easy for a woman. You should thank your lucky stars.’
He could tell she wasn’t thinking about what she was saying. All her attention was on the lad in the ditch.
‘Do you know him?’
He shook his head. ‘I’ve seen him about. In the pub in the village once. Walking down the lane a couple of days ago.’
‘Where do you live?’ Her voice friendly, interested.
‘In the bungalow further up the lane. I built it when I first got married. Major Carswell let me have a bit of land. Most of my work was on the estate farms.’
She nodded as if she understood how these things worked. ‘A bit odd then – you not knowing the man. If he was local.’
‘He doesn’t live in the valley.’ Percy was sure about that. ‘He’s a visitor maybe.’ He paused. ‘Susan would probably know.’
‘Susan?’
‘My daughter. Lives with me.’
There was the sound of another vehicle. This time a police car with a couple of uniformed officers inside. Vera Stanhope climbed back to the lane. ‘The cavalry,’ she said. ‘Just in time. I’m gasping for a cup of tea, and you’ll be starving. Why don’t you make your way home and I’ll follow you when I’ve chatted to the workers. Your Susan can tell me what she knows about the lad in the ditch.’
She turned up half an hour later. Percy and Susan were still at the table, but the cottage pie had been eaten and they were onto tea and home-made cake. His Susan had always been a lovely baker. There was no sweetness in her nature these days and Percy had the sudden notion that it all went into her cakes and puddings. The detective knocked at the kitchen door, but didn’t wait for anyone to answer. Just inside, she pulled off her shoes. Percy thought that was a smart move. Susan couldn’t abide anyone bringing dirt into the house.
‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’ And with that, the detective was at the table, and Susan had already fetched another cup and saucer. Tea was poured and a slice of cake had been cut. The bright conker eyes were looking at them.
‘Percy here told me you’d know all about the lad he found in the ditch. We’ve got a name for him now, at least. There was a wallet in his jacket with a credit and debit card. And a driver’s licence. Patrick Randle. Does that mean anything to you?’ She bit into the cake.
Susan was enjoying every minute of this. Since Brian had left and the kids had gone away – Karen to university and Lee to the army – gossip was what brought her to life. Malicious gossip suited her best, and she’d upset most of the women in the village. It pained him that she had so few friends. ‘Patrick,’ Susan said, ‘that’s the name of the house-sitter at the Hall.’
Vera looked at her without interrupting, and Susan continued.
‘When the major and his wife go away to stay with their son in Australia, they bring someone in to look after the house. Well, it’s more to look after the dogs really, but they feel happier knowing there’s someone onsite at night. When they’re away I still go in a couple of times a week – it’s a good chance to give the place a good clean – but I wouldn’t want to stay there or walk those great slobbering Labradors.’
‘Is it always Patrick who stays, when they’re on holiday?’ Vera had finished her slice of cake. Without asking, Susan cut her another.
‘No, it’s usually a woman, middle-aged. Name of Louise. This time she was unavailable and the agency sent them the young man. I wasn’t sorry. Louise acted as if she was lady of the manor, all airs and graces. She was the hired help, same as me.’ That bitterness showing itself again.
‘How long has Patrick been here?’ Vera reached out for the teapot.
‘Just a fortnight. He arrived on the Tuesday and that’s one of my cleaning days. Mrs Carswell asked me to show him round and settle him in. There’s a flat in the attic where their eldest Nicholas lived, before he went off to Australia, and the house-sitters always stay there.’
‘What was he like, this Patrick?’
Percy was tempted to leave the women to it. This time of the evening he usually put on the television, and he never liked his routine disturbed. And he thought Susan would show herself up and say something nasty. But there was such a connection between the women, such concentration, that he was scared of moving in case he broke it.
‘He seemed pleasant enough,’ Susan said. Percy felt relieved. ‘Easy to talk to. Relaxed. I asked why he was house-sitting. It seemed an odd way for a bright young man to earn a living.’
‘And what did he say?’