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 amp;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.’
