Dying to Sin

He felt sure those words would really mean something to Raymond Sutton. Far more than they meant to him, or to any of the people squirming impatiently in their pews.

Sins that separate us from God and neighbour.

What sins were committed at Pity Wood Farm that had separated the Suttons from their neighbours, and from God?

Cooper suddenly had a terrible intuition of the torment that Raymond Sutton must have been going through all this time. Whatever had happened at Pity Wood, he’d either been a part of it, or he’d acted as a passive witness. It was surely impossible for him to have lived at the farm and not been aware of what went on. Raymond must have known every inch of that place like the back of his hand, as anyone would who’d lived on a farm his entire life.

Liz nudged him hard, and Cooper realized that the congregation was about to go into another hymn, and he was clutching the wrong book, his eyes distant, his mind wandering.

‘Pay attention,’ she said.

‘Sorry.’

As the organ music began, Cooper recalled one of the sheepdogs at Bridge End dying when he was child. His great-uncle had buried the dog behind the barn, out of sight. But Ben had known something was wrong the instant he arrived home from school. He’d prowled the farm buildings until he found the disturbed ground. He’d never needed to ask anyone. The very soil and air had talked to him and told him all he needed to know.

Cooper murmured under his breath. ‘Raymond, there’s no way you could forget that. You know exactly what happened.’

The parents and godparents of the child had finally gathered around the font at the back of the church for the climax of the service.

‘We thank you, Father, for the water of baptism. In it we are buried with Christ in his death.’

And the baby, who had been so quiet and well behaved throughout the service, began to scream as the water hit her face.

It looked as though residents in the care home had been having a good time at their Christmas party. Cooper found Raymond Sutton sitting in the lounge wearing a paper party hat, the kind that came out of a cracker and only lasted an hour or so before it fell off or got ripped. Mr Sutton’s hat was green. His fellow residents had got the red and yellow ones.

‘We have the party before Christmas because some of the residents spend the day itself with their families,’ explained Elaine. ‘It means all the staff can come in, too.’

‘Mr Sutton won’t be going anywhere on Christmas Day, I presume?’ said Cooper.

‘I don’t know. Does he have any family locally?’

‘Not that I’m aware of. But I’d be interested to hear if he gets any visitors.’

‘I’ll let you know. But you come here so often yourself, Detective Constable Cooper, that you’re already his most frequent visitor.’

Cooper smiled at her, noticing her properly for the first time. ‘I’m sorry if I’m being a nuisance, Elaine.’

‘Not at all. In fact …’

‘Yes?’

‘I wondered what you’d be doing after work?’

‘More work, probably.’

She gave him a quizzical smile. ‘They must let you have some time off? But never mind.’

In the lounge, Cooper allowed an old lady to persuade him to pull a cracker with her. She read him the joke, and he laughed to please her. But he drew the line at wearing the paper hat, and she went away in disgust.

‘You never had any children, did you, Mr Sutton?’

‘No, I was never married.’

‘I understand marriage isn’t necessary any more, sir.’

‘A child out of wedlock? It would be shameful.’

‘No one would care these days, you know. Not in the least.’

‘So they tell me. But I’ve never understood it. When was it that decent behaviour went out of fashion?’

‘I don’t think it went out of fashion exactly, sir. It’s just stopped being compulsory these days.’

Sutton scowled. ‘Well, I don’t live in “these days”, do I? I live in the past. That’s what everyone always tells me. And why not? Maybe the past was a better time, and a better place.’

‘Even when evil things happened?’

Cooper felt the old man’s glare becoming more angry and more aggressive.

‘You’re trying to trap me,’ he said.

‘No, sir. I just want to understand what happened at the farm. Two women died, and that’s wrong. I think you know who was responsible. Don’t you want to see justice done?’

‘Follow justice and justice alone, so that you may live and possess the land the Lord your God is giving you. Cursed is the man who withholds justice from the alien, the fatherless or the widow. Then all the people shall say, “Amen!”’

Sutton’s words faded away into a tired squeak, and his head began to nod. Within moments, he was asleep in his chair.

Cooper shook his head in defeat. Raymond Sutton was like a man who’d been parachuted in from another century. He might have learned to accept cars and television, but he still clung to his set of Victorian beliefs as if they were a life raft. Even his voice seemed to have rusted over from neglect.

Only Mr Brindley was at home today, not the rest of the family. There must be a second car if his wife was out, because the Range Rover still stood, gleaming, on the drive.

‘Well, we’d been talking about it between ourselves the night before, turning it over in our minds,’ said Brindley when Fry asked him about his information on Elder. ‘And when we saw the temporary police office in the village, we felt obliged to call in, as good citizens. I hope it was the right thing to do.’

‘Certainly. That’s what it was sited there for, sir. I’m glad you felt able to come forward. Not many people in Rakedale have.’

‘Well, I’m not surprised. I suppose the village people are rather clannish, aren’t they? They want to stand by their own. But we’re already outsiders, you see, so it doesn’t matter what we do or say. It will hardly make any difference to our relations with our neighbours, will it?’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure, you know,’ said Fry, thinking of the incident of the crows in the bedroom. That had been in this very house, hadn’t it? She couldn’t know whether Jo Brindley had told her husband about it, so she didn’t mention it.

‘What do you mean, Sergeant?’

‘It might be advisable to check your security measures. Just in case word gets out and somebody takes exception.’

He looked concerned. ‘Oh, I suppose you’re right. They’ve never really been aggressive to us before. Rude, yes. We’ve had some unpleasant comments made to us in the pub from time to time, when we’ve called in. But outright aggression, no. I wonder if we did the right thing, after all.’

‘Yes, of course you did. If you’d kept information like that to yourself, you’d be as bad as they are, wouldn’t you?’

‘Ah. And I wouldn’t want that, would I? A good point, Sergeant, well made.’

‘Could you just explain to me what your connection is with Mr Jack Elder? I know you’ve been through it before, but — ’

‘No, that’s all right.’ Brindley steepled his hands. ‘It must have been a few years ago that I first came across him. I can’t be sure how long exactly. It was one of those occasions that we’d been into the pub, Jo and I.’

‘This would be the Dog Inn?’

‘In Rakedale, yes. We do call in from time to time, to try and show our faces. We’ve done our best to mix in, Sergeant, really we have. But the locals always seem very hostile. They whisper among themselves — and, even worse, some of them make quite outrageous comments out loud. Elder was one of those. He always seemed to be in the same corner of the pub whenever we went in, and we came to dread seeing him there. That’s why we stopped calling. Personally, I hated to stop, because it looked like cowardice. But Jo would get upset, so I went