others, their activities are way out on the edge. Their lives seem to revolve around the church and the village pub.’
‘Rather than the office and the bistro, you mean?’ said Goodwin.
‘And a lot of them really do like shooting things, I’ve found.’
‘We have that in Manchester, except they shoot people instead of foxes and grouse. But at least they make you feel part of a community out there, don’t they?’
‘You haven’t visited Rakedale, then?’ asked Fry.
Goodwin paused. ‘We didn’t make the decision lightly. There are some questions you have to ask yourself before you move to the country.’
‘Oh, yes. Like whether you can cope with mud and the stink of a freshly fertilized field.’
‘I was thinking of whether you’ll be able to survive without theatres and nightclubs. But perhaps you never had to ask yourself those questions, Detective Sergeant.’
‘Not really.’
There was a moment’s silence, and Fry had a suspicion that the solicitor was only half listening, perhaps taking the chance to read a file before his next client arrived.
‘Mr Goodwin, are you at all aware of the history of Pity Wood Farm?’
‘Its history? What do you mean? The estate agent’s details mentioned the date the house was built. Late eighteenth century, I believe.’
‘You must know something about the previous owners. Did you ever meet them?’
‘No, never. The property was already empty when we viewed it.’
‘Are you sure? What about Mr Raymond Sutton?’
‘Sutton is the name on the deeds, that’s all I know. Why do you ask?’
‘I wondered if you’d visited Pity Wood some time previously.’
‘Oh?’
‘I thought you might have had your eye on it as a suitable property if it ever came up for sale. It’s the sort of thing people do when they have a plan, like yours for keeping horses. They see the ideal place, and they keep it in mind for the future.’
‘Yes, I suppose they do. But that wasn’t so in our case. To be honest, Sergeant, I’m not all that familiar with the Peak District, let alone Rakedale.’
Fry had to accept that it sounded like the truth. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Now that you mention the farm’s history, though …’ said Goodwin.
‘Yes?’
‘This murder case gives it rather an interesting history, doesn’t it? Bodies buried in the farmyard and all that.’
‘We don’t actually know for certain — ’ began Fry.
‘No, no, of course. But it’s rather a selling point.’
‘A selling point? It won’t put you off the place, then?’
‘Not at all. It adds a macabre charm. Something to tell our friends when they come to visit.’
‘You’re really looking forward to living at Pity Wood Farm, aren’t you?’ said Fry. ‘You really are.’
‘You sound as though you’re trying to put me off.’ Goodwin chuckled. ‘You know, some people told us once that, when we move to the country, we’ll have to keep quiet for at least five years. Don’t go poking your nose in, they said. No organizing things, or making changes. It’s considered interfering. You’re an outsider and you have to serve an apprenticeship, until you’re accepted.’
‘And I suppose you don’t think that will apply to you?’ said Fry. ‘Well, Mr Goodwin, you don’t know the half of it.’
Cooper was discovering that there could be a whole social history buried in farm records. It was possible to trace the changes that had taken place in farming over the decades through the day-today details of income and expenditure.
For example, until the 1980s, government grant schemes had been committed only to increasing food production, which meant they often supported plans to improve rough pasture or increase grazing levels, which damaged conservation interests. But for some years now, grants had been moving towards environmentally friendly land management and biodiversity. There was the Countryside Stewardship Scheme of the early 1990s. Then the reform of CAP and environmental stewardship, encouraging farmers to manage land in a way that enhanced the landscape and conserved wildlife.
Somehow, though, the Suttons and Pity Wood Farm had fallen between two stools. It seemed as though they’d been too slow to change. Perhaps they’d been confused by the conflicting pressures, baffled by the fact that practices encouraged in their younger days were now considered almost criminal. Their farm records showed that their attempts at diversification had been half-hearted at best, and misguided at worst.
Cooper felt a twinge of sympathy for them. The Suttons weren’t alone in failing to grasp that conservation was now more important than the production of food.
There was an irony in the pattern the Suttons had followed. By the mid-1990s, the brothers could have got a decent price for Pity Wood Farm, if they’d decided to sell. But, like so many farmers, they probably thought they could get through the bad times and things would improve.
So they’d missed their chance to capitalize on the myth of the countryside idyll, which had been widespread in the 1990s. Living in the countryside had become the city dweller’s dream. Features in the Sunday supplements suggested the countryside could provide the space to be yourself, to have the freedom to live your life without close neighbours, busy roads, the daily struggle to get to work. Nobody spoke of the downsides — the isolation, inadequate services, having to walk a mile to the nearest bus stop, if there were any buses. No one pointed out that within a few years there’d be no shops or hospitals, nor even a post office.
Feeling weary, Cooper got up to fetch himself a coffee. It had been a long day already, and he wasn’t finished yet. When Fry returned, she’d want hard facts, not some gloomy reflection on the state of the countryside.
He gazed out of the window while he drank his coffee and rubbed his weary eyes. The past fifteen years had dispelled that myth of the countryside idyll. People in rural areas lived shorter lives, had fewer medical facilities, and were more likely to get depressed and kill themselves. One in four people in the countryside lived below the poverty line, just as in urban areas. Their children were injured on the roads more often, it took a lot longer to get to a hospital if you suffered a heart attack, and if you used a mobile phone you were more likely to suffer from brain tumours than someone in a city. There wasn’t quite such a rush into the country any more.
Cooper went back to the records. The only big surprise was that Pity Wood had survived into the middle of the first decade of the twenty-first century. It had already been an anachronism by then, dead on its feet, sinking into debt.
He knew, from the articles in
So what had the Suttons done to try to escape this looming disaster? All the wrong things, it seemed to Cooper. A poultry enterprise had been the major decision in recent years. He remembered the old poultry sheds, empty of birds but still smelling powerfully of ammonia. No battery cages, but deep bedding, so there had been some attempt at humane treatment of the chickens, at least.
Cooper searched the records in vain for purchases of any major equipment, such as a straw spreader. It looked as though the Suttons hadn’t been able to find six thousand pounds or so to spend on such a luxury item, so presumably the straw in the poultry houses had been spread by hand.
The fields had still been cut for silage in the last few years, though there were no ruminants left at Pity Wood to eat it. No cattle or sheep to get through the winter. The Suttons must have intended to sell it to their neighbours — and, indeed, there were some records of earlier sales. But Cooper had seen this year’s cut of silage himself, still sitting in its bags in the yard.
When Fry returned to the office, Cooper was surrounded by papers that spread across two desks. He was holding a glossy four-page brochure, unable to control the expression of amazement on his face.
