Dying to Sin (25 page)

24

Two hours later, and the day had been disrupted for everyone. Units were arriving rapidly at Tom Farnham’s house near Newhaven. Cars rattled over the cattle grid, officers were taping off the breeze-block garage, the flash of a digital camera burst intermittently from behind the half-open doors.

Cooper could see that the chiefs were out in force for this one. And on a Sunday afternoon, too. DCI Kessen and DI Hitchens stood conferring with the crime scene manager, Wayne Abbott, in the doorway of the garage workshop. The discovery of Tom Farnham’s body had been reported by one of his customers, calling to pick up a repaired lawnmower.

‘A totally senseless crime,’ said Fry. ‘Apparently, they didn’t get away with a thing.’

‘There’s no sign that they were disturbed in a burglary,’ said Cooper.

‘Apart from the deceased body of the householder lying covered in blood on the floor, you mean?’

‘I mean, what were they hoping to steal from the workshop?’

Fry looked around. ‘Lawnmowers? There’s a good market for them, I’m told.’

‘Yes, there is. But they haven’t touched them. You can see none of them has been moved an inch. And who would beat the householder to death when they were only out to nick an old lawnmower?’

‘Like I said, totally senseless.’

Cooper thought Fry had been much too quick to jump to conclusions about the attack on Tom Farnham. But he didn’t really blame her for it. Senseless crimes were all around them these days – there were stories in the papers every day. People didn’t understand the reasons for them, but they no longer doubted that such things happened. It was almost a first assumption.

‘There could be some other motive. It’s more than a coincidence, Diane.’

‘Oh, right. They were followers of the Old Religion, of course. And Tom Farnham had broken the faith.’

Hitchens came towards them. ‘All hands on deck, chaps. The medical examiner says that the victim wasn’t just beaten to death, he was shot. His attackers used something like a nine-millimetre pistol. They gave him a beating first, then finished him off with a couple of bullets.’

‘Bullets?’ said Cooper. ‘Firearms, not a shotgun?’

‘No, Ben. There’s blood splatter in the woods, and a trail across the drive where they dragged him back.’

The search of Farnham’s house gave fragmentary glimpses into his lifestyle. His interests had run to anything mechanical or technical, from the innards of old garden machinery to simple computer programs. His PC system boasted a number of peripheral devices – scanner, colour printer, webcam, and some that Cooper didn’t recognize. Money had been spent on this system. Surely more money than could be earned by repairing lawnmowers.

In the study, Cooper found a cork board on one wall of the bedroom, covered in photos. All of them showed Tom Farnham himself, smiling that hesitant smile in a variety of locations around the world. But these were no holiday snaps. There was one of Farnham dancing with Marilyn Monroe, another of Farnham shaking hands with Winston Churchill, and one of him standing behind Stalin on the balcony of the Kremlin. Over here, Tom was sharing a joke with Roosevelt, and in the bottom corner he had his arm around Frank Sinatra, like a previously unknown member of the Rat Pack.

Cooper studied them more closely. ‘Mr Farnham was very skilled with Photoshop, Diane. But then, it looks as though he had a lot of practice.’

Fry peered over his shoulder. ‘You mean he put himself into all these photos? Why would he do that?’

‘Some kind of celebrity obsession? He was never likely to meet these people in real life, but he could look at the photos and pretend he had.’

‘They’re all dead, Ben. Dead before he was born, in most cases.’

‘OK, an obsession with dead celebrities.’

‘Very sad.’

‘We all find our own ways of getting through life.’

‘Sinatra, Churchill, Monroe?’ said Fry. ‘I don’t suppose there’s a pattern?’

‘Not that I can see. It’s like a quiz question – what do all these people have in common?’

‘I don’t like questions without answers,’ said Fry.

‘It looks as though Farnham was on the dole,’ said Cooper. ‘There’s a calendar here, but all it shows are the dates of his giro cheques, once a fortnight.’

‘But he was making money on the side, wasn’t he?’

‘Illegally, of course.’

‘I’m betting his visitors last night were some criminal friends of his that he fell out with.’

‘Friends with nine millimetres in their pockets? They sound like some kind of street gang from Manchester or something.’

Fry laughed. ‘Who do we know from Manchester that has a connection to this case?’

‘Mr Goodwin, the solicitor? Surely not?’

‘Stranger things have been known,’ said Fry.

The kitchen reminded Fry of Pity Wood Farm, though only in its amount of clutter. Gavin Murfin had found another door on the far side.

‘Where does that lead, Gavin?’

‘I don’t know, it’s too dark to see.’

Murfin fumbled for a switch on the wall. ‘Ah. Let there be light.’

‘A utility room of some kind.’

The chest freezer in Farnham’s utility room was full of neatly wrapped packages. Fry lifted a few out and fingered their contents. She knew the shape of a joint of meat, or a packet of frozen sausages. But these were strangely sharp and lumpy. She put on a pair of latex gloves and unwrapped the nearest freezer bag. Even before she’d peeled off the final layer, she could see a line of exposed teeth grinning through the film. A second later, she uncovered a single, dark eye.

‘Jesus. What’s this?’

Cooper came to stand at her shoulder, and watched as she slowly exposed the frozen object. Patches of fur had darkened and stiffened around the head. A pair of tiny, clawed feet were held rigid, close to the chest.

‘A rat,’ said Fry. ‘What sort of person would keep a dead rat in the freezer?’

‘No,’ said Cooper. ‘It’s a squirrel.’

Fry’s hands shook a little as she placed the frozen body on top of a plastic Wall’s ice cream box. She covered the animal’s eyes, though she knew it was a mad notion to be afraid that it might turn its head and stare at her accusingly for disturbing its rest.

‘Oh, sorry,’ she said. ‘There I was, thinking there might be something odd about having a rat in the freezer. But keeping a frozen
squirrel
among your pork chops – that’s perfectly normal, of course. Doesn’t everybody do it?’

‘Well, it depends what it’s for, Diane.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘Mr Farnham probably knew a taxidermist. There’s one quite near here, in Bakewell. They’re always on the lookout for well-preserved animals.’

The DCI entered the house and watched them working for a few moments, not being critical but assessing their performance.

‘I understand you have a suspect in custody, DS Fry,’ said Kessen at last.

‘Yes, sir. Mr Jack Elder. But he’s being questioned on allegations of the sale of illegal fuel, and his vehicle was logged by patrols monitoring a dogging site near Sheldon. He has no connection with Tom Farnham that we know of.’

‘He does now,’ said Kessen. ‘We ran the registration number of Farnham’s Subaru pick-up through the intelligence system. One of the other vehicles monitored at the dogging site was his. Mr Farnham and your suspect were present at the same time.’

A few minutes later, Fry and Cooper were heading north towards Sheldon. Cooper didn’t know Godfrey’s Rough, but he had a vague idea where it was, somewhere near the White Peak village of Sheldon.

‘The monitoring patrols recorded Farnham’s pick-up and Elder’s lorry at this Godfrey’s Rough at the same time, but there were no other vehicles present,’ said Fry when she finally came off the phone.

‘So much for the idea that they were out dogging, then,’ said Cooper. ‘I think you need a few more participants, don’t you?’

‘Exactly. And it’s the wrong time of year anyway.’

‘What do you think they were up to?’

‘I wish I knew, Ben. But now that Elder has a confirmed connection with Tom Farnham, he’s involved in a murder enquiry. We’ve got to dig out what his involvement is.’

Cooper shook his head. ‘If they were just meeting at Godfrey’s Rough, we won’t be any the wiser.’

‘They were a long time, according to the log,’ said Fry. ‘The patrol logged their registration numbers at six twenty-five p. m., and again at eight fifteen. That’s more than just a quick chat.’

The car was constantly ploughing through seas of muddy water. Not floods exactly, just a general consequence of wet weather, the result of rain pouring down from the hillsides on to the roads. Here, the dry-stone walls were held together by a sheath of green moss.

A hundred yards in front of them was an Arla Foods milk tanker, heading for one of the dairies at Manchester or Ashby de la Zouch after its daily farm collections. Cooper felt these limestone areas of the White Peak were a more friendly landscape than the moors further north. It felt lived in, shaped by human activity. The White Peak was a particularly satisfying landscape, somehow. Psychologically satisfying.

‘But what else is there at Godfrey’s Rough?’ asked Fry. ‘What would have taken the two of them there for so long?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Cooper. ‘We’ll have a look round when we get there.’

Seeing that his tank was getting close to empty, Cooper took a diversion through Hartington and pulled into a little filling station – old-fashioned personal service, and just two pumps to choose from, unleaded or diesel.

When he was getting his wallet out to pay for the petrol, Cooper found an envelope in his inside pocket that he’d forgotten about.

‘Oh, by the way, Diane, with all the excitement, I didn’t get round to showing you this.’

‘What is it? A photograph?’

Cooper got back behind the wheel and drove out of Hartington, glad that he was familiar with the locations of remote filling stations in this area.

‘I borrowed it from the heritage centre,’ he said.

Fry studied the photo. ‘I can see three men standing in a farmyard. Is that Pity Wood?’

‘Yes. It was taken in the 1960s. When I went to the heritage centre, I wasn’t really looking for anything that old, but still … It was a bonus.’

‘Why?’

‘There’s a caption on the back. Names and a date – I wish more people did that. Here on the right is Raymond Sutton, standing in the doorway of the barn. See him?’

‘Yes.’

‘He’s changed a lot, but I can just about recognize him. There’s a look around the eyes and the shape of the jaw. It’s quite distinctive. A Sutton chin. I think there are Sutton ears, as well. A little bit protruding.’

‘They’re like jug handles,’ said Fry bluntly. ‘But the hair cut doesn’t help, I suppose. I’ve heard rumours of those short back and sides.’

‘Right. The man sitting on the tractor is Derek Sutton, who died twelve months ago.’

‘Yes, I can see the ears. He was the superstitious one.’

‘That’s right. He was a few years younger than Raymond, but he seems to have gone a bit strange over the years.’

‘He never married, did he?’

‘No. Nor Raymond, either.’

‘Old bachelors living together. They were bound to go a bit funny, as you call it. Especially at Pity Wood Farm.’

‘His older brother didn’t have much influence over him anyway, so far as I can gather. In fact, Derek’s superstitious beliefs seem to have been a kind of rebellion against Raymond’s piety. It suggests to me that Raymond was a sort of father figure – their real dad died when they were only boys, you know. Old Mr Sutton was killed in the Second World War, serving with the Sherwood Foresters in North Africa. I suppose Alan wouldn’t even remember his father at all.’

Fry looked up. ‘Alan?’

‘Alan Sutton.’

‘Who?’

‘There were three brothers. Alan was the youngest.’

Cooper took one hand off the steering wheel and put his finger on the photograph. ‘He’s here, behind the tractor. Unfortunately, we can’t see him very well, because he’s standing in a shadow from the barn. It was summer – you can tell that from the way they’re dressed, even if the date hadn’t been on the back. August 1968. I bet they were about to start the harvesting.’

‘Why has no one mentioned a third brother? And where is Alan now?’

‘I phoned Ned Dain while I was at the heritage centre. He was very evasive, and when I pressed him he had to go away to consult his mother. But they finally agreed that Alan Sutton just upped and left the village one day, seven or eight years ago. They reckoned he couldn’t bear living with the other two. The Dains hinted that they treated him badly.’

‘Why have they been so shifty about mentioning a third brother? They could have come straight out with that information when we first visited the Dog Inn.’

‘Yes, they could.’

‘But Dain was deliberately vague and misleading when I spoke to him,’ said Fry, starting to sound angry. ‘I know damn well he and his mother haven’t just suddenly remembered this Alan Sutton. In a place the size of Rakedale, it’s inconceivable that they wouldn’t know exactly who was in the family at Pity Wood. So what have they been trying to hide?’

‘I don’t think they’ve been trying to hide anything really,’ said Cooper. ‘I think they were protecting him, in their own way.’

‘Protecting Alan Sutton? From what? Interest by the police?’

‘Possibly. Or from being found by his brothers.’

Fry considered it, her mouth tight with irritation. ‘You think the Dains took sides in some sort of dispute between the Suttons? Maybe they know where Alan is, and they’ve made a promise not to tell anyone.’

‘It would explain their behaviour. They would have been worried that we’d go off and find him.’

‘On the other hand, they might be taking Raymond’s side.’

‘How so?’

‘Well, Raymond seems to have sold the farm without any reference to his younger brother. Shouldn’t Alan be due a share of the proceeds? But if he’s disappeared to the other side of the world and lost touch, Raymond could be hoping that he never gets to hear of the sale – or at least, not until it’s too late.’