‘If only we could, sir,’ said Fry.
‘Those people who worked here, they were brought by Farnham and the other bloke, the Irishman.’
‘Mr Rourke?’
‘Yes. They brought people here, they worked, they went away again. I never knew who they were, or where they went. I didn’t ask. I left it to Farnham. Was that wrong?’
‘Who can say, sir?’
‘The old caravan behind the house,’ said Cooper, as the wheelchair was turned round. ‘Was that used for housing some of the migrant workers?’
‘Aye, now and then. Farnham and Rourke used it for themselves, too.’
‘Did they? What for?’
‘Nay, I don’t know. And I didn’t — ’
‘You didn’t ask. Of course.’
Despite Sutton’s words, his expression was tight with anxiety, his eyes close to tears, as if he was remembering more than he was telling, suffering pangs of guilt for things he’d done, or hadn’t done. Or maybe for what he’d never asked.
Sutton gazed around the farm, like a man saying a last goodbye.
‘When I die, this place will still be here, these hills and valleys, choose how.’
Fry looked at Cooper for a translation. ‘Choose how?’
‘He means “come what may”.’
‘Aye,’ said Sutton. ‘Choose how. Come what may. The hills and valleys, but not the farm. There are some cousins of ours over in Stoke — they can have whatever money there is when I’m gone, and welcome to it. I would never have given anyone the farm.’
‘This farm must have been here for centuries, Mr Sutton.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Sutton. ‘It’s middlin’ old.’
Cooper watched the old man until he seemed to be calmer.
‘Mr Sutton, we found Screaming Billy,’ he said.
‘Billy? Aye, where is he?’
‘Right now, he’s in a laboratory in Sheffield.’
‘Derek would have said it won’t do ’em any good. It was bad luck ever to move him, Derek said.’
‘But you didn’t believe in that, sir?’
‘No. Complete rubbish. The Lord has your fate in his hands, not some dirty old bit of bone.’
‘And was Derek trying to preserve a hand?’
‘A hand? I don’t know of any hand.’
But Sutton looked troubled, as if it was a possibility that seemed only too likely.
‘We found the materials in your kitchen for preserving a hand in saltpetre. It’s an old recipe. Your brother could have learned it from the museum in Edendale.’
‘I never knew what he was up to,’ muttered Sutton. ‘And never cared to ask, either. It would always end up in a row, and he knew it. Superstitious bastard, he was. I could never talk any sense into him.’
Cooper recalled Palfreyman’s description of the two brothers sitting silently in their kitchen, failing to exchange a word all evening. He wondered when exactly Raymond had tried talking sense to his brother. It would have been much easier just to let him get on with his odd ways, wouldn’t it? That was usually the way in families. Familiarity bred acceptance, and all kinds of bizarre and strange behaviour would be treated as normal within the family, no matter how likely it was to attract the men in white coats if it was seen on the outside.
‘Did he have any particular superstitions that bothered you, sir?’
‘Bothered me? Nowt bothers me,’ said Sutton. ‘Nowt.’
Wrong word. Try again. ‘There were some things he believed in that you disagreed with?’
‘Damn well all of them. Oh, he went to chapel, but he never followed the way. He was tainted, corrupted. Right from a child, he was. Our dad showed us the right way to do things, but Derek had to be different. He took after our mother, I reckon. Folk always said she was fey.’
Fey. It was many years since Cooper had heard that word. His mother had used it of one of their neighbours at one time. It had been meant in a disparaging way, he was sure. Disapproving, certainly. But he’d always felt there was a degree of admiration in the word, too. A sense of the awe and respect that had traditionally been accorded to the wise woman, the healer, the widow people surreptitiously visited at dusk to ask for advice, or a special herbal preparation.
‘And what about Alan?’
Sutton was suddenly silent. The tears that had been threatening to appear since he arrived at the farm started to trickle down his cheeks. Cooper immediately regretted being so blunt. And he prayed he never reached the stage in his own life where he could be made to weep so easily.
‘Alan is long gone, too,’ said Sutton.
‘What happened to him, Mr Sutton?’
‘He left. He couldn’t stand living here any more.’
‘Where is he now?’
Sutton gave a long, unsteady sigh. ‘I don’t know. Alan’s gone, Derek’s gone, the farm is gone. What else matters?’
Fry stood over his wheelchair. ‘Is Alan still alive?’ she asked.
Sutton turned away, refusing to look at her.
‘We haven’t heard from him for years. Eight years or more, it must be.’
Fry glanced across at Cooper, and he knew what she was thinking. An evasive answer.
But they let Sutton go with his carers, and he was helped back into the minibus for the return journey to The Oaks.
‘Did you notice something about Raymond Sutton’s behaviour?’ said Fry when the minibus had left. ‘Apart from the fact that he evaded a direct question, I mean.’
‘Oh, what?’ said Cooper.
‘He was fine with us — well, in his own way. But he had a bad reaction to the uniforms.’
‘Yes, I did notice that.’
‘Interesting.’
‘What are you thinking, Diane?’
‘I’m thinking I’d liked to have asked Mr Sutton what he remembers of PC David Palfreyman. In particular, why he’s so worried when he sees a police uniform on his farm.’
Suddenly, there was a commotion at the back of the farmhouse. Voices shouting, someone running heavily through mud, a door slamming, more shouts.
‘What the heck’s going on?’ called Fry to a SOCO standing at the corner of the house.
‘Someone got through the outer cordon. It looks like they’ve caught him inside that old caravan.’
‘Interesting,’ said Fry. ‘Let’s go and see what this is all about.’
By the time she and Cooper made their way to the broken-down caravan, two uniformed officers had their suspect secured and in the back of a car. One of the officers had slipped during the chase and was vainly trying to wipe the mud from his trousers.
Fry walked over to the car.
‘Do you see who I see, Ben?’
‘Yes, an old friend of yours.’
Fry opened the door. ‘Well, what are you doing here — again?’
Jamie Ward looked up at her from the car. He was a frightened boy again, white faced and dishevelled. The same young labourer she’d met that first day on the farm when he turned up human remains.
‘I wasn’t doing any harm,’ he said. ‘I told them, but they wouldn’t listen.’
‘Jamie, you shouldn’t be here at all. It’s a crime scene.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘What were you doing in the caravan?’ asked Fry. ‘Were you looking for something, Jamie?’
