‘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.
‘I doubt it,’ said Fry. ‘If a crime was committed — and we’re not even a hundred per cent certain of that yet — then it happened a while ago.’
The teacups were empty, and Murfin had consumed the last crumb of the last biscuit. It was time to leave the normal world and get back to Pity Wood Farm.
‘Oh, I suppose you must know David Palfreyman?’ she said.
‘Palfreyman? Yes, we do know him,’ said Brindley carefully. ‘He lives quite close, and we’ve said “hello” a few times.’
‘He used to be the local village bobby.’
‘Ah, the rural policeman. Yes, we’ve definitely seen him. You could hardly help but recognize what he is. I’m sorry.’
Throughout their visit, the son had sat watching Fry and Murfin as though they were putting on a show especially for his benefit. His own home version of
