Dying to Sin (10 page)

Fry finally got some attention when a middle-aged man emerged from a door behind the bar. He was wearing an old cardigan and carrying a mug of tea with ‘Number One Dad’ printed on it. He introduced himself as Ned Dain, the licensee.

‘The Suttons?’ he said. ‘I remember the two old men. They’re not still at the farm, surely?’

‘No.’

‘I thought not. We haven’t seen them in here for ages. Died, did they?’

‘Only one of them did.’

‘Damn.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Well, I bet that would be really hard on the other brother,’ said Dain. ‘They were so close they were almost like twins. Spoke the same, had a similar manner. Yet someone told me once they didn’t see eye to eye on a lot of things. They kept it hidden well, if that was the case.’ He took a sip of tea. ‘There were a few years between them in age, I think.’

‘We’ve been told Derek was the youngest by four years.’

‘Is he the one that died?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Damn.’

The men in the bar had moved on to discussing the Middle East problem, and whether anyone had seen the darts on the telly last night.

‘Can you tell me anything else about them?’

‘They always kept themselves pretty much to themselves,’ said Dain. ‘But there’s usually somebody who knows something around here. What did you want to know?’

‘Was either of them married, for example?’

‘Hold on. Hey, Jack!’

The man with the long, grey beard looked up. ‘Aye?’

‘The Sutton brothers at Pity Wood – was one of them married?’

Jack glanced slyly at Fry before answering. ‘I don’t rightly recall. Might have been. It was a long time ago, if so.’

‘You’re right,’ said Dain. ‘I don’t recollect they were married. A set of old bachelors, I’d reckon. We mostly saw the brothers together, if we saw them at all. If there was ever a wife, she must have died, too, or walked out – who knows?’

‘Well, who does?’

Dain seemed not to be able to answer a direct question.

‘Derek,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘And then there was, let’s see … Billy? No, of course not. That’s me getting mixed up. I’m getting a terrible memory for names.’

‘Billy?’ The man called Jack coughed and laughed into his beard. ‘There was never any Billy. You’ve got that wrong, Ned.’

‘Raymond,’ said Fry.

‘Raymond. That’s right. Derek, Raymond …?’

‘Yes, Derek and Raymond. Those are their names.’

Dain gave her a quizzical look. ‘All right, if you say so. Well, Raymond, now – he played the organ at the chapel. You could ask the minister about him. He’s circuit, of course, based in Monyash. Or there’s Ellis Bland – he’s the caretaker.’

Jack spoke up again. ‘Ned, they had a funeral at the chapel, didn’t they? The Suttons.’

‘That would have been Derek, then,’ said Fry.

‘Aye, Derek. Funny bugger – superstitious as all get out. Magpies, black cats, I don’t know what. He thought everything he saw was going to bring bad luck.’

‘He’s dead now, so he must have been right,’ said Dain.

‘Well, we hope he was dead, since they buried him.’

Jack cackled and went back to his tobacco. Fry tried to regain the attention.

‘Apart from the Suttons themselves, were there any farmworkers that used to come in the pub?’ she asked.

‘No, but perhaps my Dad would remember them, if they came in here.’

‘Was your father the licensee before you?’

‘Not him,’ said Dain with a laugh. ‘Well, his name was over the door, but running a pub would be too much like hard work for that drunken old bastard. No, you’d have found him sitting on that side of the bar most nights. He knew everyone around here, though. If strangers came in, he’d be giving them the once-over as they walked to the bar, and he’d know everything about them by the time they left the pub again. You could do with blokes like my old dad on the police force, if you want information.’

‘I suppose he’s not still around,’ said Fry.

‘Well, not around here, thank God,’ said Dain. ‘We put him in a home when he got too bad. Cracked as a tin bucket he was, by the end. Too much drink wrecked his brain. But it was his liver that did for him in the end.’

‘Oh.’

‘Me, I won’t go that way. I’m as fit as a fiddle, and twice as tuneful.’

Dain rubbed a hand on the bar counter, as if finding a blemish on the polished wood.

‘Come to think of it,’ he said, ‘I think the police
did
use my dad as a source of information from time to time. The local bobby would come in here himself in those days, in uniform and all.
And
he’d expect free drinks. Those were different times, I suppose. He even brought his sergeant in sometimes.’

Picturing the scene, Fry suddenly had a bad feeling about the answer to her next question. ‘Can you remember the name of that sergeant?’

Dain shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think so. It’s too long ago.’

‘Shame.’

Dain ran a cloth across the bar counter. ‘Wait, though … it was a fairly common name. Oh, that’s annoying. It’s right on the tip of my tongue.’

Fry waited as patiently as she could while he fumbled through his memories, but nothing seemed to be emerging.

‘Cooper?’ she suggested. ‘Sergeant Joe Cooper, perhaps?’

‘Who?’ said Dain. ‘Nah, that’s not it. Cooper? Where did you get that from?’ Then his face broke into a broken-toothed smile. ‘Nothing like it. Williams, that was his name. Big Welsh bloke. We called him Taffy.’

‘And the local bobby himself?’

‘Oh, Dave Palfreyman? He’s still around, all right. You won’t be able to miss
him
.’

Outside the Dog Inn, Fry stood for a moment in the rain. Something about the conversation in the pub was worrying her. Not the barely concealed hostility, or Ned Dain’s infuriatingly poor memory – if that’s what it was. No, it was a faint ambiguity that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Not anything that had been said, but something that had been missing.

Fry stepped over a pothole in the car park that was slowly filling with water, and found herself thinking about the patch of disturbed ground that Jamie Ward had pointed out at Pity Wood Farm. It had been nagging at the back of her mind the way things did when she’d overlooked them, or not acted when she should have done.

She took out her phone and called DI Hitchens, who was still at the farm.

‘Yes, I feel we should try to make it a priority,’ she said. ‘As soon as possible. Yes, I understand, sir. Resources … Well, Jamie Ward believed it was important enough, and I think I agree with him.’

9

Apart from the pub, the village’s facilities seemed to consist solely of a small post-box lashed to a fence post. When he’d finished his calls, Cooper sat in the car and watched the rain soaking the walls of the chapel.

‘There’s no post office,’ he said, when the others returned. ‘That would be the place to go.’

‘So?’

‘The next village has one.’

‘We could give it a try.’

He saw there was a Town Head Farm at one end of the village, and Town End Farm at the other. He supposed it helped visitors to Rakedale to know whether they were coming or going.

Most of the farms along this road were well kept. Of course, they were fully functioning enterprises, with neat signs displayed at the roadside – the name of the farm, the family who owned it, the type of cattle they bred. Friesians and Holsteins mostly, with the appropriate illustration of a proud beast under the family name. There had been no such sign at Pity Wood.

The post office in the next village was open for business only from eleven a.m. to one p.m. on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays. Like so many rural post offices, it was operating what were officially called ‘satellite hours’. Villagers here were lucky – many areas had lost their facilities altogether. But, since this was Friday, it was no less closed.

Most of the buildings seemed to be either holiday cottages or offering B&B. They were deserted in mid-winter, dormant and empty, awaiting an influx of tourists in the spring, their owners praying there wouldn’t be a repeat of 2001, when the foot and mouth outbreak had destroyed their business.

The only other notable feature in the village was a farming heritage centre, which looked quite a new development. An interesting avenue of diversification, preserving the heritage instead of farming.

‘Any other suggestions?’ asked Murfin.

Cooper unfolded a map of the Rakedale area. ‘There’s another farm up the road, away from the village. We oughtn’t to miss that.’

‘I’ve been given the name of a retired bobby who lives near here,’ said Fry. ‘Palfreyman, he’s called. Now, if he’s an old-style copper, he could be a very good bet to know all about the Suttons. Well, as much as anyone here does.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘Hollowbrook Cottage, the landlord of the pub said. It should be up this same road.’

‘I see it,’ said Cooper, with his finger on the map. ‘We can do both together quite easily.’

‘You know what? I think you can take the ex-bobby, Ben,’ said Fry.

‘Oh, thanks. Is that because you think I’m the best person for the job, then?’

‘Yes. Well … that, and the length of the drive up to his house. Someone is going to get wet.’

Some retired coppers chose to run pubs. They wanted to stay busy, they said, so they kept themselves close to the public – and sometimes a bit too close to the alcohol, as well. But ex-Police Constable David Palfreyman had hit his thirty and retired to his garden. He had a decent-sized patch behind Hollowbrook Cottage. It was a well-kept property that had been carefully modernized, and lots of money had been pumped into its appearance. Palfreyman’s cottage would be worth a packet by the time he had to sell it to pay for his medical and social care in old age.

Right now, though, Palfreyman looked robustly healthy. He was a big man, a couple of inches over six feet and keeping his muscles from sagging too much by regular physical activity. Like other balding men who spent a lot of time outdoors, he had to wear a hat to avoid the damage the weather could do to his head, summer or winter. The former constable had chosen a dilapidated fedora that flopped low at the brim, shielding his eyes from the rain.

He met Cooper at the gate, having seen him coming up the length of his drive. He seemed genuinely pleased to see Cooper’s warrant card, which was a rare event. And, for the first time that day, Cooper was invited in.

On the doorstep, Palfreyman paused and pointed out a passing car. ‘That’s Mary Greenhalgh, on her way to pick up the kids from school. If you watch, there’ll be a blue Vauxhall go by in a couple of minutes. That will be her boyfriend.’

‘Boyfriend?’

‘Lover, if you like. He visits Mary in the afternoons, then they leave the house separately – she goes off to fetch the kids, and he drives off in the other direction, turns round and comes back. I think he lives near Buxton.’

Just as Palfreyman had predicted, a blue Vauxhall went by, driven by a man with fair hair who was straightening his tie with one hand.

‘Do you know everything that goes on around here?’

‘It’s second nature to notice things, after thirty years in the job. Besides, I don’t have much else to do with my time. There’s precious little gardening in the winter.’

When Palfreyman gestured, Cooper saw that blue veins snaked across the back of his hands. But they were large hands, with the sort of palms that might have delivered a smart slap to a recalcitrant youth in the old days.

Palfreyman put the kettle on, and immediately began to talk. He revealed that he’d spent his entire career in what would now be known as ‘core policing’. Beat bobbying, he called it. Never a specialist of any kind, and never a candidate for promotion. He’d made it to his thirty without a black mark on his record, and without any commendations either. A man with no ambitions beyond doing his job and staying out of trouble.

Cooper thought he knew the type. No doubt Palfreyman had spent the last few years of his service counting down the weeks and days as his retirement got closer, as so many officers did. In police stations all over the country, officers had the date they would qualify for their full pension circled in red on a calendar.

‘Have a seat,’ said Palfreyman. ‘I won’t be long.’

Cooper settled himself in the lounge, admiring a jade-green rug and an IKEA coffee table while he watched the retired bobby fussing about in the kitchen.

From what Palfreyman said, he’d been committed to the job in his own way. Lots of younger officers would have considered a posting to a rural backwater as a punishment. Not too much crime to deal with out here, was there? It was more of a PR job than proper policing, really – the visible face of the old-fashioned British bobby, providing reassurance for the public.

Palfreyman was grey-haired, but still a big man. A lot of the weight he carried must have been put on since he finished active service. He thumped around the kitchen on feet that seemed to be wearing a permanent pair of heavy boots, even after he’d taken them off in the porch.

Actually, he wouldn’t have lasted much longer in the force, if he hadn’t been due for retirement. Cooper couldn’t see him as a modern response officer, turning up on blues and twos for a punch-up outside a pub or to chase a burglary suspect over a few garden walls. His supervisors would have put him behind a desk, where he could fill in forms. And he’d have hated it. Cooper could picture him in the corner of an office, oozing resentment and cynicism.

‘So you’ve still got your finger on the pulse of Rakedale, Mr Palfreyman?’

‘Not exactly. Not like I used to. But I know when its blood pressure is up, if you follow me.’

‘But you’re familiar with the history of Pity Wood Farm?’

‘You ought to talk to Tom Farnham,’ said Palfreyman. ‘He worked at Pity Wood. He was the only one who worked there any length of time, I think. But then, he’s local. All the rest of them stayed for a few months, then moved on.’

‘The rest?’

‘Casuals. Short-term labour.’

‘Are you referring to itinerant workers?’

‘Oh, aye. Lots of them have turned up at Pity Wood over the years. Coming and going all the time, they were. It made it difficult to keep track, from my point of view. I never quite knew who was living in the area at any one time. Well, I tried to persuade Raymond to keep better records, but it was a waste of breath. It’s amazing to me that they didn’t get into trouble. They wouldn’t get away with it now, the regulations are too tight. So much bureaucracy. But then, you must know that, in the job.’

‘Did you find the Sutton brothers difficult to deal with, Mr Palfreyman?’

‘Difficult?’ He sniffed thoughtfully. ‘Well, they were a funny bunch, the Suttons. I was round there once, in the days before Tom Farnham appeared on the scene. Derek and Raymond were just sitting in that room there, one either side of the table, not speaking a word to each other. Weird, it was. Like they were afraid of breaking the silence, as if they thought something terrible would happen if they were the first to speak.’

‘Was there bad blood between them? Did the brothers have an argument of some kind?’

‘Not that I know of. Not in living memory, anyway. I think that’s just the way they were. Awkward, pig-headed buggers. You know the type.’

‘Yes, I think I do.’

Another car passed on the road outside, and Palfreyman turned his attention away.

‘I see you have a cat,’ said Cooper on the way out, noticing an elegant ball of fur curled on a rug in the kitchen.

‘Yes. He’s a Burmese.’

‘Did the Suttons have a lot of cats?’

‘God knows,’ said Palfreyman. ‘Well, probably. All farms have cats, don’t they?’

Fry and Murfin were invited in, too. But the property they’d arrived at wasn’t a farm, not any more. Someone had bought the farmhouse and converted it into a nice family home, but had let the land go to neighbouring farmers. If there had been outbuildings on the property, there was no sign of them now. This was pretty much what Pity Wood was intended to be, Fry thought.

A nice new Range Rover stood on the drive, the only car she’d seen for a while that wasn’t plastered with mud. Inside, the home was immaculate – probably kept in that condition by the small, Asian-looking woman that Fry had glimpsed passing like a ghost from the kitchen into the passage when she arrived.

‘We don’t see much of the village people,’ said Mrs Brindley, setting out a tray with a welcome cup of tea for her visitors. ‘Not that we aren’t village people ourselves, but you know what I mean.’

‘Not really,’ said Fry.

‘Well, Rakedale … there’s no reason to go there, not as far as we’re concerned. Yes, even though it’s only half a mile away. It’s not as if it has any shops, or a post office. Or a church.’

‘Just the Primitive Methodist chapel.’

‘Exactly.’

Mrs Brindley was a slender, mannered woman with a carefully casual style that suited her. Both she and her husband were in their forties, pleasant and friendly. Fry wouldn’t normally have put much store in those qualities, but this was Rakedale, and they were a relief.

‘Our lifestyles send us further afield, I’m afraid, Sergeant,’ she said. ‘We need shops, restaurants, theatres. And sports facilities for the children. You won’t find any of those in Rakedale. So unless we’re feeling really lazy and decide to call at the village pub, we never go there. We head off to Hartington for the church, Buxton or Ashbourne for shopping and that sort of thing.’

In addition to the couple themselves, there was a teenage boy in the room, who Fry hadn’t been introduced to when she arrived. About eighteen, possibly a bit younger. She was finding it more difficult to tell these days. He said nothing, but his unblinking stare was a bit disconcerting. Presumably he was one of the reasons for the Brindleys’ lifestyle.

‘So you wouldn’t know the Suttons at Pity Wood Farm?’ asked Fry.

‘That’s across the other side of the village, isn’t it?’ said Mrs Brindley. ‘We’ve probably heard talk of them.’

‘Probably? Who from?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Who would you have heard talk from, if you don’t go into the village?’

Mrs Brindley looked at her husband, confused. ‘Alex?’

‘There’s a kind of communication by osmosis in a place like this,’ he said. ‘People know things without you having to tell them. If you’ve already been to the village, I bet they knew you were coming long before you arrived.’

‘Yes, that was the impression I got.’

Brindley smiled. He was a good-looking man, tall and dark, but relaxed and co-operative in a way that she’d come to regard as uncharacteristic of people in this area. It must come from meeting too many criminals.

‘Well, it seems to work for us, too,’ he said. ‘We’re aware of the Suttons, yes. Two brothers, wasn’t it? But one of them died, not long ago. It was in the local paper, and they had his funeral at the Methodist chapel.’

‘Yes, that was Derek Sutton.’

‘But they were farmers, you see … We weren’t on visiting terms. We wouldn’t have much in common, I imagine.’

That was the truest sentence Fry had heard spoken for several days.

She finished her tea and looked out of the window. Sure enough, it was still raining. She couldn’t yet see any sign of Ben Cooper standing outside getting wet.

‘One last question. Have you heard of anyone going missing locally, while you’ve lived here? Word of that would get round, wouldn’t it? By osmosis or otherwise.’

‘No, and it’s rather worrying, Sergeant,’ said Mrs Brindley. ‘We heard on the news about something being found. There was a picture of the old farm. It’s terrible, what’s happened.’

She couldn’t even bring herself to mention an object so tasteless as a dead body.

‘Yes, terrible,’ said Fry.

‘We’re very anxious to help, if we can. But we’re so busy at the moment, all of us. You were quite lucky to catch us at home. We certainly haven’t had time to keep up with the local gossip.’

‘How many children do you have, Mrs Brindley?’

‘Just the two, Sergeant. Evan here, and Chrissie, our daughter. Chrissie is fourteen.’

Fry addressed the teenage boy who’d sat silently on the edge of the sofa, watching her throughout their visit.

‘I don’t suppose you know anyone in Rakedale either, Evan?’

‘No, hardly anyone. There are no young people, only old – I mean, old people.’

‘It’s difficult enough trying to keep Chrissie and Evan away from unsuitable company at school,’ said Mrs Brindley. ‘We wouldn’t want them going down into the village.’

‘No, I see.’

‘Should we be concerned about the safety of our children, Sergeant?’ she asked.