Annie Howe drove down beyond the house, between well-grown oaks.
‘Sollers lives in a converted coach house.’
‘But he inherits Oldcastle?’
‘Seems likely. Doubt he’ll live there, but nobody can see him selling it. More likely turn it into a hotel or some sort of conference centre. Maybe even the official citadel for the increasingly wealthy Countryside Defiance. Their website carries a photograph of him in hunting pink with all the trimmings. And handcuffs.’
‘Huh?’
‘The countryside in manacles – the foxhunting ban and other issues. Sollers Bull lives to hunt.’
A caged bulkhead light came on over the porch as Annie Howe parked in front of a metal gate next to a small car. By the time they got the gate open and reached the porch door, a woman was coming out, wearing a calf-length sheepskin coat, its collar held together over her chin and mouth. Annie Howe stood in silence and watched her.
‘Thank you, Mr Bull,’ the woman said, her back to them now, ‘and I’m sorry to have bothered you. Goodnight.’
As the woman got into the small car and its engine started up, a man appeared in the doorway.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Annie.’
‘I tried to call, Mr Bull,’ Howe said. ‘But you were engaged.’
‘Bewildering times, Annie. The phone only ever stops when I unplug it.’ His voice was pitched up higher than you expected; you could hear it lofted across the fields, over the melee of a hunt. ‘You got something to tell me?’
‘To ask you. If you can spare the time.’
‘Of course. Coffee?’
‘No, thank you, Mr Bull. I suspect we’ve had rather too much of that today.’
The overhead light made a twinkling star in an ear stud as Sollers Bull turned to examine Merrily. She saw a man of a little over medium height. A keenly pointed face, with deep bevelled cheeks. He was wearing tight black jeans and a red T-shirt with a message on it in black: Not a fox-hugger. The small car pulled away, headlights on full beam. Maybe the woman was a journalist.
‘This is Merrily Watkins,’ Annie Howe said.
Didn’t explain further. She had her mobile out; it had evidently been on vibrate.
‘Excuse me.’ She took a step back on to the path, speaking into the phone. ‘DCI Howe.’ And then, after a silence, her voice low and deliberate, ‘When was this, Karen?’ before moving further away.
‘Erm…’ Merrily looked up at Sollers Bull. She was cold. ‘Would you mind if I had a coffee?’
‘I’ll put some on.’
She followed him into a very classy designer kitchen.
‘This an old house, Mr Bull?’
‘Not particularly. Nineteenth-century and fortunately not listed so I’ve been able to do what I like with it.’
‘The farmhouse must be listed, though.’
‘Grade Two. Starred.’
‘ Was it a castle?’
‘No. Older than that. The site was known as Oldcastle because of what was there before. Don’t know what it was, but the stones are probably in the foundations. ’
‘I see.’
Through a window, Merrily saw Annie Howe, in the light grey trench coat, up against a ranch-style fence, listening to the phone. When she came back, her face was paler than the coat, but no less grey.
‘Meant to ask you, how’s Charlie these days?’ Sollers said.
Sitting with his back to the red Aga, stretched out almost diagonally, feet under the hardwood table, hands behind his head. Charlie? This would explain him addressing Howe as Annie. It very much figured that the Oldcastle Bulls would be familiar with her dad.
‘I’ll come straight to the point, Mr Bull. Colin Jones – how well do you know him?’
Sollers looked blank. Genuinely so, Merrily thought, studying him: younger than he looked in the papers and not so distinguished: too flash for that.
‘ Byron Jones?’ Merrily said.
‘Oh, well, I know him,’ Sollers said. ‘Though not particularly well.’
‘Have you ever done business with him?’ Howe asked.
‘Kind of business?’
‘Cattle, for example. Ever sold any cattle to Mr Jones?’
‘I wasn’t aware that Mr Jones was even in the livestock business. Or the meat trade, come to that.’
‘That’s not quite answering the question, is it, sir?’
Annie Howe began unbuckling the belt of her coat, unhurried, like she was prepared to stay until she got what she’d come for. Only Merrily, sitting next to her, opposite Sollers, saw that her fingers were unsteady, fumbling it.
Sollers straightened up in his chair. His sleek, pointy face looked… foxy.
‘No, I’ve never sold any beasts to Mr Jones.’
‘Or maybe given him one?’
‘Do you know what Hereford cattle are worth?’ Sollers glanced from Howe to Merrily and back to Howe. ‘What exactly is this about?’
‘Just so that we have this clear, Mr Bull,’ Howe said, ‘you’re saying that, as far as you’re aware, no animal bred at Oldcastle has ever been sent to Colin Jones’s establishment. Sent either to Jones or his business partner, Kenny Mostyn.’
‘How would I know?’
‘As far as you’re aware.’
‘I think you’d better explain.’
‘I don’t have to explain anything,’ Howe said.
Her skin looked cold as bone.
She hadn’t said what the phone call had been about. But then, police business, why would she?
69
‘Thank Christ,’ Danny said.
Kenny Mostyn, and he was on his own and no longer wearing a dinner jacket.
Dressed for action, in fact: dark jeans, black fleece. Likely his suit was in the overnight bag over one shoulder; Danny had been worried that Mostyn might be staying the night at The Court and they’d still be sitting here when the sun come up, stiff as corpses. But mabbe Mostyn wasn’t overnight-guest material.
‘Looks like you was right then, Gomer.’
They had the old Jeep parked under a willow tree, edge of the parking area. Only a couple of dozen vehicles left. This was a select dinner party. Gomer had ID’d Councillor Lyndon Pierce, fellers on that level, usual suspects.
‘Mostyn just showin’ his face,’ Gomer said, ‘but he got business elsewhere to see to.’
‘Don’t switch on yet, let him get clear of the gate.’
‘En’t daft, boy. Keep our distance all the way.’
‘Only thing worries me,’ Danny said, ‘is what if the Scotch bloke’s told him about a feller lookin’ for him with a cock to put in the ring. Best I could think of at the time, see.’
‘Too late to get fussed about that.’
There was a furry growl under Gomer’s voice now. Likely due to seeing Mostyn dressed much the same as he had been that night in the snow. Everything coming back, and the worst of it was that – for just a short while, surrounded by these lithe, prowling young guys – he’d felt just a bit scared. And even worse than that…
… mabbe like an old man.
Gomer was gonner hold that against Kenny Mostyn for ever.
It was like Cornel was gobbling up the night, wildly excited as he guided Jane, limping, through the gap in the high wire fence. Holding her hand inside his, which was big and dry. The moon lit an open space, with army-type huts, metal gates leading to fields and woodland.
‘What is it?’
‘Big boys’ playground.’
Jane gave up. The way his mood had altered, she could only think he’d taken something. Maybe when he went off, apparently for a pee in the woods and she hadn’t heard anything. Snorting coke from a folded tenner.
‘Training centre,’ Cornel said. ‘Assault course, big pond they cross on ropes, professional shooting range… and all the things they daren’t do at The Court because it’s too close to the village.’